


Hollering Just to be Heard

by saltyynoodles



Category: American Revolution RPF, Hamilton - Miranda, Historical RPF
Genre: Bunch Of Feels, Civil War Lams AU, Era-typical homophobia, Everyone hyper-analyzes stuff, Friends to Lovers, Hamilsquad, I know nothing about trains, Intimacy, Lams - Freeform, M/M, Multi, Musical References, No Smut, Obsessive research was done for this (you're welcome guys), Old Relationships, Runaway! John, Shaky plot (my fault), Side ships actually have plot ish, Slow Build, Telegrapher! Alexander, Washingdad, mentioned past abuse, random historical cameos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-07-11 17:00:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 14
Words: 25,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7061611
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltyynoodles/pseuds/saltyynoodles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Civil War Lams AU.</p><p>April 1861, Fort Sumter is captured and the American Civil War begins. Meet Alexander, an ambitious New York telegrapher, and John, a Southerner who wants to be anything but. The war brings new perspective to everyone.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Diamond in the Rough, a Shiny Piece of Coal

**Author's Note:**

> Hello hello hello! It's hamilton trash #1 (joking), with more stories. Because trash! Anyways, hope y'all like.
> 
> >> Disclaimer: I own nothing :,) Also, while I do research, it might not be completely through— expect faults!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The first few chapters will mostly be plot build up cuz you can't really have lams if they don't even know each other heh :/

**April 1861**

Alex couldn’t remember when it had ‘happened’, it had always been _there_ — a hunger to succeed, a nagging,undeniable urge to _rise_ up despite the odds. It surpassed the childish spirit of competitiveness, it was as if there was fire in his veins, fire in his _mind_ . While he didn’t have a precise _name_ for it, whatever it was, it was the thing whispering _Alex, you’ve got to fight._

As soon as the news hit the papers, his tactical brain had fired up and he’d instantly _known_ what to do. Fort Sumter had been taken, Lincoln would be _insane_ not to officially call war— there was already one brewing in his people’s minds. The nation had been on the verge of war for decades, and Alex, ever ambitious, had been waiting for it. _Longing_ for it. War was like gunpowder: combustible, risky, but key to a million opportunities. It was certainly costly— in lives and resources— but he could work with that.

That was how he’d made his way in America, just one of thousands of orphaned citizens. He’d _fought_ for this opportunity— to make sure he stood out in those thousands. He’d done thousands of jobs, educated himself, taught himself all the things no one else bothered to.

All humans have desires, they long for things. Born in the dregs of society, he’d grown accustomed to watching suited men and elegant women strolling about without a care in the world, not doing _anything_ for the world. It disgusted him. So he had used that— added it to the fire in his veins, refused to give up. Because someday, it would be him, Alexander Hamilton, sitting at the top of the world, fighting for _his_ nation.

The endless reservoir of energy and ambition that had flooded him as a teenager was the reason why he sat where he did: on a hard wooden chair, hand cramping around a pencil, and sore eyes trained upon a simple machine and paper as night fell. Perhaps not glamorous, but Alex was hoping that wages for his job would rise as the war continued, rumors of military seizure of the ingenious telegraphs often whispered about between the staff. The young man was, if not anything else, optimistic. War gave one that giddy feeling.

Alex, renown at the office for working long, late shifts, was in the middle of one of them, planning on going to midnight. At that point, hopefully Hercules would come by to relieve him of the post. Since moving to this part of New York after his mother died, he’d run into the large Irishman, who would soon become one of his best friends and roommate— family, even. Fellow immigrants, those who’d had it rough climbing up the social ladder— Alex could respect them. After all, that’s what his family had had to do since the moment they walked the earth.  

The only reason Alex’s other tentative friends didn’t argue about the brown haired telegrapher hogging shifts was that everyone knew that Washington, the boss of their small telegraph station, was practically a second father to him. That and it was inarguable that Alex was possibly the best damn telegrapher in New York.

After just a week on the job, he had gotten the hang of decoding messages without a key for Morse code. Just two weeks after that, he could write down the messages in English by just hearing the faint clicks of the telegraph. _Prodigy_ was not something he did n’t hear often.

Blinking blearily at the clock hung crookedly on the wall, Alex read 9:48. _Only a few more hours._ Resting his chin on his palm, he stifled a yawn and adjusted his glasses. In the cozy office surrounded by familiar objects, it felt _comfortable_ , a sensation he wasn’t all that used to.

For a moment, it was as if he could forget his ambitions and forever live in this niche of America, fed by a low, but tolerable, salary, books, and a coffee every now and then.

* * *

 

In just two days, John had traveled for longer and further than he’d ever in his entire lifetime. He’d been contemplating such action for long before the shots at Sumter, even packing and nearly making it out the door before indecision pulled him back. But now times were different— the South had pulled an indescribably _stupid_ move, thus leading to why he was stowed away (naturally illegally) on a train heading North.

It was probably one of the last, and by God did John _not_ want to be stuck on the wrong side of the border when the rifles were brought out. After all, his father had made it quite clear where _he_ stood on the matter. All he wanted was to get out of this pit he’d grown up in so luxuriously. He closed his eyes and dark-skinned faces stretched in agony stared back at him— _it’s not worth it._ He’d grown up on the back of terrorized men, women, and children. Just thinking of that made John feel _filthy_ , more inhuman than the way they treated their slaves.

Something sharp and angled jabbed into his tensed back and he awkwardly shifted amidst the storage and goods being kept on the train. Groping for his knapsack, John grunted and pulled the jutting item out. A face smiled back at him— a drawing he’d made of Mary, his youngest sister and his favorite. She’d never called him ‘Jacky’ the nickname their father used when he got irritated at him or questioned his sudden choice in switching to law school.

He was glad to be leaving that life behind— even if he regretted leaving Mary as well. The bitter sensation of rebellion had slowly accumulated over the years, small refusals from his father becoming more and more unbearable. Anything John liked would most certainly be forbidden, his father’s demands ranging from “science and medicine aren’t _real_ fields” to, “stay at the plantation and run it like a man” or “if you can’t _bear_ that, go to law school”. Not to mention, John’s all-time _favorite_ , “when are you going to get yourself a wife to fix you up?”. Truly, a wife had worked ‘wonders’ on his father.

The South Carolinian groaned— even _thinking_ about his father made his head ache with a migraine. Gently putting the portrait back gently, John put his head between his knees and felt the sure tugs of sleep as the train’s vibrations thrummed through him. It was almost like a lullaby he mused as unconsciousness whispered to him— maybe when he awoke, he would be in the North, or at least Virginia. Or captured.

A faint smile touched his lips, _either way, I’ll be glad to be out of this hellhole._


	2. Every Burden, Every Disadvantage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex is woken up by Hercules (literally), John is woken up by a little boy (metaphorically).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello hello! Another chapter! Awesome. Wow. Don't expect such speedy updates again (procrastination is a good friend).
> 
> Side note: I use "nigger" in the chapter for historical realism, however I don't condone using the word in actual conversation. It's offensive and just reveals how uneducated people are— please just don't :/

Alex jolted awake in his bed from a loud noise in the main room— he was a light sleeper, a habit attained from his years spent in rough areas. Noise meant trouble. The dingy apartment Alex shared with Hercules was a few roads away from the telegraph station and marketplace— perfect for the two men’s interests. A glance at one of the numerous clocks, spread around the house by a meticulous Alex, told him it was around four in the morning, which was early. _Extremely_ early for a young man who had only gotten to sleep a quarter after one.

Rolling out of bed, the brown haired telegrapher stomped irritatedly out of the room. He mused the possibility of the uninvited guest being Lafayette, a French immigrant with far too much cheer and joy in the early hours for Alex, who was decidedly a night person. Nonetheless he was an agreeable friend and it amused Alex to speak French with him when poor, monolingual Hercules was around.

“Laf, I swear by God, if you want me to do another shift in the next five hours— you’re out of lu—” Alex’s rant suddenly cut off at the sight of Hercules Mulligan, a rather muscular man, struggling under the weight of pounds of cloth.

This sight, on a rather smaller scale, at a more reasonable hour, was normal to Alex. The young man even reaped the benefits of living with a best friend obsessed with sewing. However this, _this_ , _monstrosity_ had no familiar place in his mind, and he spent the next few moments staring, mouth agape, at his friend.

Seemingly just noticed Alex, Hercules uttered a sigh of relief, “Alex! Take these for a moment, I’ve got more.” By the time the tremendous weight in his small arms was registered in his brain, Alex’s limbs were already shaking at the thought that the tailor (part time telegrapher) had hauled that and _more_ to their miniscule apartment. The landlord, a pudgy man with the name of Seabird or some odd combination of syllables Alex didn’t bother recalling, already got pissed off enough at their untimely activities, Alex often writing late and Hercules sewing relentlessly.

“Wait, Herc— where should I put these— Herc— _Herc!_ ” Alex awkwardly placed the bundle of cloths and fabrics on the part of the floor least covered by books. Let it never be said that two young men living together are clean or pristine.

With one last battle cry, Hercules dumped the next load, at least twice the size of the original, and sighed, “that’s the last of them.” He looked extremely satisfied and pleased with himself, oblivious to his roommate’s look of utter horror.

“Would it be foolish of me to ask what all of this is for?” Alex asked timidly, fatigued body already longing for his bed.

The taller man rolled his eyes, “yes, yes it would be. It’s simply being prepared on my part.”

Pushing a few books off the ratty couch, Alex made himself comfortable, “oh, really?”

Hercules nodded animatedly and jumped into a rant comparable to Alex’s, “a _war_ has just started. This is _huge_ , because while we, the northern states, are industrialized and advanced, we still need raw materials. In my case, I need fabrics to sew. Fabric is produced by the agrarian southern states, which, may I remind you, we are at _war_ with.” Hercules waved off Alex’s snort of amusement. Feigning hurt, he continued, “be quiet, my plight is serious. Anyways, because of the _war,_ fabrics will become more scarce, since you don’t _trade_ with the place you’re trying to beat up. Thus, I’m stocking up on fabric and cloth— _that_ is what this is all for,” the man gestured to the intimidating pile to emphasize his point.

The shorter man hummed approval— if he couldn’t for the new, extra clutter, he could appreciate economics. Or common sense. Both seemed to be direly needed by the people.

After a brief farewell to Hercules, Alex trudged back into his cramped room, placed a book on a shelf stacked precariously high with more, and slumped into his squeaky bed. Not even bothering to adjust himself for comfort, he already found his eyes closing as his messy brown hair touched the pillow.

* * *

 

John felt sick.

It wasn’t motion sickness— no, he’d gotten used to the strangely effervescent aura of the “metal horse” long ago, the shaking becoming almost a part of him, like a second heart beat that shook his entire frame. And while the curly haired man could have blamed the churning feeling to the bread he’d stolen, having taken no money, or the endless, rolling green fields that gave him an odd sense of claustrophobia, he knew it was a much simpler, straight-forward ‘disease’: he was homesick.

Even Henry Laurens, the grade-A jerk he was, was John’s one and only father. He couldn’t deny that. After all, family was family— they were a constant.

Needless to say, John wasn’t very good at the concept of “running away from home”. It had only just dawned on him, a few miles ago, that he had no _sliver_ of an idea what to do when he got to . . . _wherever_ he was heading. Wind blowing through his hair in that exhilarating way, John had almost considered staying that way— eternally train hopping.

But he couldn’t— he was materialistic in that way, wanting a cozy home, a place he could go back to after a rough day, a place he could call _home_ — a place where he could belong.

 _New York might be nice_ , John had heard about the Empire State before, always in awing tones. Certainly there would be business opportunity there (he could put to use the law degree his father had pushed him into) and the state was pro-abolitionist enough to scare off Henry Laurens. Both were definitely pros on John’s list of “home must haves”, the later especially.

 _But how to get to there? New York was about as north as you can get in America— it might as well be North York_ , he mused, drumming his fingers idly on the bottom of the train cart.

In just two days of train travel, John had crossed hundreds of miles, passing through Virginia. As the train slowed at one of the few stations in the largely undeveloped southern states, he grabbed his few possessions and made to leave. His stomach was aching again, this time with actual need for sustenance. It would be good to stretch out his legs.

“What the _hell_ were you thinking, you dumb nigger—”

John instinctively turned towards the furious voice, slurs uttered from a middle aged Southerner with a black and grey moustache. A young boy stood beside him, bawling loudly about a lost toy. John silently watched as the man grabbed a bag from the trembling slave, scene taking him back to when his father would beat slaves mercilessly, partly from pent up rage, partly just because he could.

It sickened John— it was like killing innocent creatures for sport. A useless pastime.

He observed the Southerner’s shouts and reprimands become harsher and angrier, until his hand raised up in a sure sign of imminent physical abuse. Legs already moving before his mind registered, the curly haired young man knocked the older man’s hand away with surprising strength.

“I wouldn’t do that,” John spoke softly, voice low and tense with rage.

All those times as a child, he’d never been able to do anything, only able to watch and take in the clear pain in slaves’ faces. It felt _good_ to take action, to slap that man’s arm away, spit in _his_ face and see how he reacted to having the tables turn. John always was a man of movement.

At that moment, the boy began to wail at an even higher volume, blubbering about the unfairness of the situation. Seeing the man, presumably his father, reach for his waist, John ducked away— things would get ugly quick if the Southerner was hiding a pistol and not an extra handkerchief. Leaping up on the train, which was conveniently just pulling out of the station, the young man found himself agreeing with the boy, albeit for different reasons. He grinned to himself wryly, indeed the situation _was_ unbelievably unfair.

His smile gradually faded away as the train made its way away from Virginia. True, he’d considered that he’d helped, but perhaps it had only been superficially. Who was to say that the slave had not been further punished, more so than he initially would’ve been, _because_ of John’s foolhardy interference?

 _No, I was wrong— the way to_ really _change things for the better . . ._ his mind flashed to the boy’s petulant whining and realized his miscalculation: to truly change the situation, it would have to be the hearts that changed. Hundreds of lives could be thrown at the abolitionist cause, but as all the propaganda and news outrage over John Brown had shown, guns weren’t going to change minds, it would only end them.

John laced his fingers together and exhaled deeply. He had a lot of thinking to do before he reached New York.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A note about the train times (since I'm obsessed with making everything as accurate as possible) as I'm packing hella plot around John train hopping and all:
> 
> When I was researching, I found the direct distance between South Carolina and New York and divided it by the mph of an old steam train (that I assume is similar to the one that they'd be using) (mph because I'm American, sue me). This gave me the estimate time of 4 hours. Since that's not a lot of time (at all) here's a few justifications for how John's on these trains for days, when the trip (according to my research) should be 4 hours (almost 5).  
> 1- The South's railways sucked. I'm sorry, it's true. So true. Anyways, the South's train system was all screwed up back then (heck, a lot of the time, with no uniform track width, train tracks had to be reset for a train to pass through, making things real slow), which gives us more time. It can also be assumed that there's not gonna be a direct SC-NY train route anyways so.  
> 2- John's train hopping, which is illegal (then and now), thus he'll move around. He's not going to stay on the same train for the whole time, and getting off and boarding trains takes time.  
> 3- The mph I found online, I will assume, is generalized. There's no guarantee that a train will go faster or slower or at that precise speed. I assumed that, unless there's valuable cargo, a train will go at that speed or slower to conserve coal. Basically, slower train = more time for John to mess around and come to emotional revelations.  
> 4- John's got to sleep, he's human. I'm guessing that while occasionally sleeping on the train is alright, considering that what he's doing is illegal, he's probably not going to sleep on the train, which hinders his progress (losing about 6-8 hours). 
> 
> So there's my rant/ excuse, see you all in the next chapter :)


	3. Damn, it's Getting Dark

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's heading to New York (where dreams are made) while Alex is being his regular clumsy, ambitious self.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys all for the lovely feedback, this is turning out to be incredibly fun :D  
> Sorry if everything seems slow paced so far, I promise stuff will get better (hopefully, heck if I'm actually planning heh).

John had only been in close proximity with a gun twice— the first time had been as a young boy, sneaking into his father’s office and looking through the cabinets Henry Laurens had always listed as ‘off limits’. The second was when his father had been  _ furious _ at a slave, for a reason John couldn’t recall, and allowed his son, a teenager inexperienced with firearms, to aim a pistol at the slave’s head and shoot as close as he could to the man, without grazing flesh. 

A simple game to John, who had believed himself brave as he looked in the muscular man’s dark eyes, an unreadable emotion there.

But it was more than just a game, John later realized— the slave could’ve been seriously injured and yet the emotion in the man’s eyes hadn’t been fear like a teenaged John had assumed, but defeat. He’d already given up.

_ A sadistic game. _

The mere sight of a sheening barrel was enough to send John’s stomach twisting, that disgusted self-loathing returning full-force.

That was how he found himself frozen, shocked, at the sight of the military officer pointing his gun at him. He’d thought himself so clever— surely he couldn’t be seen from the outside of the train? As the thought passed, John’s eyes fell upon his knapsack, which had slid out from beside him (lying on the bag had proven one discomfort too many in the cramped car) to peek out the edge of the cart, not in a precarious position, but certainly visible. 

Cursing silently, John forced a strained smile on his freckled face, well aware he looked like a child caught for stealing candy. Train hopping was exhilarating, if not illegal, and it was just John’s luck that he’d chosen a train loaded with supplies— his wouldn’t be able to bluff his way out.

“I’m sure we can come to an agreement, right?” John eyed the pistol warily, “sir,” he added after a second thought. The man reminded him of his father, another unfortunate happenstance of the day.

Snorting in disgust, the man lowered his gun swiftly, “Southern scum— I should’ve figured.”

Trying to ignore the jibe, John cleared his throat, “um, where am I?”

“I’m feeling generous, I’ll let you off with a warning. I expect to see you off this train soon and hope that you don’t run into me again,” the stern man blatantly ignored John’s question.

“ _ Sir _ , can you please tell me where I am?” he irritatedly grabbed the man’s arm, pulling back moments later as if burned by the glare sent in return. His mind had, in a moment of stupidity, forgotten the deadly weapon in the military man’s hand.

“Welcome to Philadelphia.” The man somehow made the eight-syllable greeting sound harsh, almost threatening. Shivering slightly from the cold wind, John slipped off the train, warily keeping an eye on the man, who seemed to have all but forgotten him.

Breathing deeply, he ran his fingers through his tangled hair, trying to calm his heartbeat. If only he hadn’t been caught— if his father’s relentless lessons proved true, John was some hundred miles from New York City. What could’ve been a few hours on train had turned into an excruciatingly uncertain trip, especially for John who had little money. 

Certainly he could just stay in Pennsylvania, but the young man already had his heart set upon New York, an economic capital that seemed more packed with opportunity for the future. Strolling idly through the city that had grown exponentially since its humble beginnings, he found himself in front of a looming, stone building— Independence Hall.

The red and white bricked building was visibly old, the years harsh on the structure— and yet it still stood. John walked up the steps, peering through the windows. It was empty inside. 

Standing back, he considered the monument of a building. Here was where the original Founding Fathers, roaming into uncertain territory, had plotted out and created the constitution of America. Perhaps the nation wasn’t doing too fine at the moment, but these men had had hopes and dreams for their country and had dedicated themselves despite any doubts they’d held— and despite the doubts _ John _ had, he could respect that.

When he was a child, his Henry Laurens had regularly taken his children to a local church, for the image of a well-organized, cooperative family it exuded if for nothing else. While he couldn’t consider himself radically religious, he couldn’t help but think, with war breaking out and ripping apart the very constitution these long dead men had fought for, it was some sort of serendipitous matter of fate that John landed himself in front of Independence Hall.

Scratching his head, John stifled a yawn— it was surprising how exhausting running away could be, even if it entailed only sitting on a train— and made his way to a more populated area of the city. Contemplation of otherworldly creatures aside, he’d need sleep to decide his next move.

Perhaps an inn would be willing to take in a skinny Southerner with only a few dollars on hand.

* * *

 

Alex’s shift had just been over when it happened— in fact, he’d nearly been out the door, with a wave to Angelica, off to his apartment, when they’d come, duo strolling down the street in their pristine military uniforms. Their loud entrance had quickly brought down Washington, who’d greeted the men with a stern nod. Washington was well known around the area for having served in the Mexican War as a general, but that didn’t soften the brunt of the message. 

_ Military seizure. _

Alex needed to only hear the two words before he dashed off to his apartment, where Hercules was getting Lafayette to model some sewing project.

Bursting through the door (which always seemed to be uncannily unlocked), a red-faced Hamilton tripped over a stack of books while his friends bit back laughter. With irritated grace, Alex pulled himself back up and brushed back sweaty hair, “really not the time guys. Who even  _ put _ books there?” Taking in the other two’s amused faces, he huffed, “alright, it was  _ probably _ me, but that’s not the point. The military came.”

The grins died off of their faces. They’d all expected it sooner or later, Washington running a rare, private telegraph station that sent messages for customers to select locations— it was the sort of thing that attracted observers. Due to the lack of flexibility in the telegraph’s destination, the business had never truly taken off, but it still brought in enough revenue for the staff. Evidently it had gathered enough attention be found by the military.

Alex was all for the telegraph as a military strategy, but that didn’t stop him from worrying— there was no guarantee that they would be able to keep their jobs, and even if they did, who was to say that they’d get any money? With the ripples of war already being felt, more jobs were being closed than opened, leaving only uncertainty for Alex. He’d worked hard for his current, almost luxurious, life— he wasn’t going to base his plans on luck. Whatever happened, Alexander Hamilton was determined to stay on top.

“ _ Mon ami _ , let us hurry, yes?” Lafayette held open the door, studying Alex’s thinking face.

Snapping out of his reverie, he hurriedly walked out, “let’s. Sorry.”

* * *

 

Twenty minutes later saw the trio sitting in the station’s backroom alongside the Schuyler sisters as Washington tensely spoke to the two men from the military. A handwritten note of  _ shop closed _ was pasted on the front window.

Alex slid up to Eliza, the second youngest Schuyler, and winked, appreciating how her dark eyes seemed to glitter in the lamplight. “Hey, what’s happened since I left?”

“Angie told me that Washington tried to kick ‘em out— saying ‘this is a place for the public, not political war’ or some sort, but you can imagine these men didn’t appreciate that. So now they’re trying to compromise,” Eliza brushed her silky dark hair behind her ear as she thought of her next words. “I think that he’s just trying to make sure we can keep our jobs,” she smile fondly at the large man, who had truly become a sort of father to them all.

“Yeah, I suppose,” Alex shrugged idly and narrowed his eyes at the military men, who were most likely soldiers. He’d determined that they’d most likely let them keep their jobs— after all, they knew the telegraph best. Why fix a machine that wasn’t broken?

But where would that leave them after the war? The military, and government by extension, was in the better position for bargaining. While the small staff could hardly argue for extra commodities when the military could easily take control of the station, the military could continue doing what it wished, claiming them to be necessary measures to win the war. It irritated him how brutally weighted this was— there was no way they could win.

A random quote came to Alex’s mind—  _ if you can’t beat them, join them _ . How many stories had Alex heard of previously unheard of soldiers gaining glory and power through war? 

_ Yes—  war is opportunity.  _

Knitting his fingers together, his mind split into distantly listening to the conversation at hand and piecing together his plan. Yes, he wasn’t just going to succeed— he was going to rise up and  _ dominate _ . 


	4. We have to Make this Moment Last

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hercules and Lafayette are just looking out for Alex, Alex hates mailmen (Aaron Burr (sir) doesn't help matters). Meanwhile, an old man bugs John.

A warning “don’t do it” and equally incredulous “ _ mon ami _ ” sounded at nearly the same time, and Alex scowled at his two friends. After they’d been dismissed from the telegraph station, Lafayette had accompanied the roommates back to their meager apartment to continue with Hercules’ project. The fact the Frenchman was having pants tailored on him at the moment made the duo’s refutal of Alex’s idea no less smarting.

Crossing his arms, he frowned, “and why  _ shouldn’t _ I go off and join the military?”

“You think they’re going to just shove you— a _telegrapher_ , not even one of a large company— into the top command? Sure you know Washington, but it’d take a lot more work than that to get up in the ranks— he’s been retired for years,” Hercules voice softened slightly as the shorter man made to protest. “I know _you_ can work hard Alex— and everyone knows you’re destined for great things— but I think you should think this through a bit more.” Hercules’ voice— normally warm and comforting with brogue accompanying his words— sounded harsh with denial to Alex.

_ He doesn’t need to tell me how I have no connections.  _ No family, no wealth or prestigious ancestors— if anything Alex normally had a intimate sense of pride that he’d made it so far on his own. He occasionally wondered where his brother, James, had ended up after the telegrapher had made his way off St. Croix, but most of the time, Alex found it depressingly easier to just ignore the thoughts. As if forgetting his older brother would make him and their past fade away entirely. 

Running his fingers through dark hair, Alex sighed and made to leave the foyer area. He pretended like he didn't notice Lafayette and Hercules exchange glances.

“Wait, Alex—” Hercules abruptly looked up from his sewing, worried expression on his face.

“Relax, I just need to go on a walk,” he replied wearily. Perhaps a walk around would clear his head— after all, the apartment wasn’t the quietest of places. Seabury, an unfortunate Confederate-sympathizer, was so determined to maximize his profit with his building, Alex was surprised their neighboring room was empty. Even so, listening to Von Steuben’s beloved greyhound bark constantly grated on his nerves after a while.

After walking down two flights of stairs, Alex entered the small room in front of the main door, where Seabury’s house servant sorted the tenants’ mail into baskets. Just the thought of that brought another scowl to his face— the notion of enslaving a human being was perhaps even more repulsive to him because of the fact he wouldn’t have been able to buy a slave even if he wanted to. Being of possession of such wealth, and then throwing it away to take away another’s freedom—  _ it’s disgusting _ . 

Sighing, he picked up his apartment’s mail— an ever meager pile— and listlessly read through the senders, contemplating his friends’ advice.

Was the the military honestly that bad? Sure, they were taking control of Washington’s station, but it was for an undeniably good strategic reason. Wouldn’t Alex joining them also be for an equally good strategic reason?  _ No one else in the world is going to take care of me but myself.  _ Not his mother, certainly not his father, and not even his— 

Alex froze, rereading the envelope twice again for good measure—  _ James Hamilton Jr., South Carolina _ . Years— how many had it been since he’d last heard from his brother? Too long— his hands trembled and he tore open the mail, one thought surpassing all in his mind:  _ he’s alive. _

* * *

 

“We’re closed!”

The third inn of the night slammed its doors in John’s face. He’d initially thought it fortunate that Philadelphia was home to so many inns, but then realized that, unfortunately, most of them were home to wary keepers that didn’t feel the need to house a poor, underaged Southerner that looked like he was partaking in illegal activities. If John was being honest with himself, he’d most likely take the same course of action in their position. Sadly, he was the poor, underaged Southerner. As for the shady aspect of his appearance— he blamed it upon living on and around trains for days.

Grumpily dumping his bag on the stairs (John had found himself unconsciously returning to Independence Hall), he plopped down beside it and rubbed his face. The gas-fueled street lights flickered about, dimly illuminating the empty streets. Burying his head in his folded arms, John briefly contemplated sleeping there— surely he couldn’t be arrested for sleeping on public property? 

He yawned and didn’t even notice a figure approaching him. When the person, a rather elderly man with a ornate cane, finally spoke, John nearly leaped out of his skin.

“You’re not from around here, are you?” the man offered dryly.

The curly haired man bit back a shout, “who are  _ you _ ?”

The man nodded wisely, “indeed— you’re from the South.”

John felt a pulse of indignation—  _ everyone _ seemed to just automatically pin him as Southern due to his voice, and his accent wasn’t even that  _ strong _ . From the inns to this picky old man who’d interrupted his attempt at sleep (he could distantly hear Mary rambling about some conspiracy of sorts), it was rather dejecting.

“So what if I am? What about you? I bet you’re . . .” John looked over the man’s neatly-tailored outfits and faintly recalled hearing  _ Paris _ and  _ fashion _ in the same sentence a few times, “from Paris!” he completed triumphantly. Only after he realized the man didn’t have a Parisian accent, not that he really knew what that sounded like, and that he was laughing at John’s decidedly wrong decision. 

Wiping an eye theatrically, the old man grinned, “alas, you prove just  _ slightly  _ wrong. I’ve spent many years in France and even lived in Paris for a short while, but my home is here, in Philadelphia. The name is Benjamin Franklin,” Franklin held out his hand genially. 

Reluctantly, John accepted the hand and stood. “I suppose there’s a reason you’ve walked up to me at this hour?”

“I suppose,” Franklin shrugged, seemingly unaware that the young man expected him to answer in full. Staring at John through wiry glasses, Franklin studied him for a moment, “Joseph?”

“Sorry?”

The Philadelphian chuckled to himself, “oh, don’t mind me— I do love my observation games. You seem like a Joseph.” 

For a moment, it seemed as if John was ignoring the eccentric man, and for a moment he was tempted to, but he soon realized Franklin was probably his last chance to sleeping somewhere warm that night. He sighed and muttered under his breath.

“What was that my boy? Do speak up for this poor old man.” More laughter.  _ Truly eccentric _ , John thought.

“John. My name,” he repeated.

Franklin’s brow wrinkled, “I guess that would work too— I still stand by Joseph.” He shifted his ancient shoulders in a shrug and started walking away, presumably to his house. Noticing that the young man was waiting behind awkwardly, he smiled kindly, “I assume you have a lodging elsewhere? If not, you’re free to lodge in my home— Deborah would enjoy some company other than me and the children. I personally think we’re driving her crazy.”

John couldn’t help a smile at that, trying to think of anything but his family back home.  _ Home—  _ was it  _ really _ ? As he took in the Philadelphian streets that were so different and yet oddly familiar, John couldn’t help but doubt that.

* * *

 

“What do you  _ mean _ , ‘post isn’t going into the South’?” Alex demanded, just about ready to punch the postman. The man, middle aged with a slight beard, might’ve even looked fearful for his life, if the person threatening him wasn’t at his chest-level.

“Mister, with all due respect, the office strictly ordered that no postage to the mutinous states be denied,” he sighed, adjusting his messenger bag wearily, like he had to deal with underpaid men arguing about mail all the time (Alex reconsidered the statement and realized it was probably true to a certain extent).

Either way, he was seriously considering the physical ‘persuasion’. After all, whoever had said the quill was stronger than the sword had clearly never gotten a black eye before. 

Alex held the reason of their bickering in his clenched hand, trying to avoid crumpling the carefully composed letter to James. He’d spent  _ years  _ being a negligent brother, never quite forgiving himself for taking the opportunity to leave St. Croix and running away so eagerly, not even trying to check up on his brother. Certainly Alex wasn’t one to throw away his metaphorical shot of an opportunity, but James was the only blood family he’d actually felt was  _ family _ . And now he had a chance to make it up to his older brother— the man was having financial issues? That was right up Alex’s alley, and yet fate just loved to toy with him— as if a hurricane wasn’t enough, now it tossed a  _ war _ in his face.

“Look here, I will—” 

“Alexander, please,” a smooth, melodious voice hit Alex’s ears and he instantly wished he hadn’t heard it. Aaron “talk less, smile more, I have no opinions” Burr, was possibly the most irritatingly confusing neighbors Alex had— entertaining and knowledgeable to talk with one moment, smooth-talking liar the next. The guy was also a pacifist, not necessarily something he had a bone to pick with, but one that couldn’t even acknowledge when a person  _ really _ deserved a punch.

Like this mailman.

Alex rolled his eyes at Burr— of  _ all _ the people he had to wake up. At least Theodosia put some spice in Burr’s adamantly unspicy life (last he’d heard she was off sneaking around the South or some sort. He couldn’t help but envy the woman). “Burr,  _ sir _ , I rather get to the point right now, rather than dawdle around wasting—”

“Hey Alex, do you know where Maria’s apartment is?” a new visitor arrived— he wouldn't be able to mistake the bold curls of Angelica Schuyler for anyone else, even if he tried. Alex was starting to think that perhaps the big man above  _ didn’t _ want this mailman’s demise, even though his face was begging for it.

Sighing, the telegrapher shrugged his shoulders, shot one last  _ this isn’t over _ glance at the postman, and nodded at Angelica. “Yeah, I know where she lives, why?” After some not too pleasant dates with Maria a few years back (her prior fiance had acted rather perverse, leading to a fist fight, for which Alex bet the woman still hadn’t forgiven him for), he wasn’t eager to revisit those memories.

Angelica rolled her eyes at his hesitation, having been one of the people he’d confided in on the occasion, “Peggy’s been hanging out with her a lot.” Her expression softened to one of sisterly affection, “I just want to check up on her— she’s my sister, you know?” Having siblings that cared for you in such a way—  _ it must be nice. _

Alex mimicked her eye roll and began to walk up the stairs. Glancing down at the letter one last time, he swallowed, “of course. Family.” The gears were already turning in his head— there was never a wall that could stop Alexander Hamilton, although that wall had never included technical treason before either. It was going to be a long week of thinking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellooo!  
> While I was researching (like always) for this chapter, I distantly recalled leaning about female spies in the Civil War so I checked up on that and, sure enough, school actually proved to be legit (wow). So the whole mention about Theodosia in the South is that ;)  
> For the mention of the room next to them that'll come into play later. As for why Laf doesn't actually room next to them it's because the room used to be occupied until recently by William Howe so there was no time to really arrange a move. Fun fact: Howe moved out because he wanted more room to raise his dogs (who kinda hated Von Steuben's dogs) as well as the fact every time he ran into Alex they get into a near-fist fight. That's our precious bean we know and love.  
> Also, Von Steuben really did have a Irish Greyhound named Azor, which (according to the ever-reliable source of Wikipedia) "he took with him everywhere". Sue me, I find that adorable (please don't actually I'm poor).


	5. Do I Run or do I let it Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is sitting (again), this time not on a train. Alex shows why he's called 'Little Lion'.

John gripped the newspaper with white knuckles, unable to believe it.  _ Another State Gone! _ the headlines blared out in bold print. Unbelievable.

Well, not entirely. That was an exaggeration— everyone had  _ known _ that the Southern states wanted to secede. After all, they’d threatened to multiple times, some of them already ‘gone’. But that didn’t take away the numbing shock of losing another state— the realization that Virginia, the massive behemoth of a state it was, no longer associated with  _ America _ was like John chopping off his own arm.

In a way, it sealed a sense of finality for him— at any point before now, he could’ve slipped back, retraced his steps through Virginia and headed back to South Carolina. ‘Home’ if nothing else was. It wouldn’t have been easy, but certainly not impossible.

But now the ever-important Virginian border would be gunned up with all the newest nasties that were cooked up in factories nationwide. Impassible to anyone sane. 

John folded up the newspaper and shoved it in his pack. After seeing the newspaper boy shouting frantically and observing the growing crowds around him, an interested John had called the carriage Franklin had arranged for him to pause, buying a paper. Now he partially regretted the decision, news churning his stomach as if he hadn’t left before the Franklins’ breakfast.

The only optimistic thing about the situation was that after Franklin had listened to John’s story, he’d arranged for him to meet up with an old friend of the man, Revere, in New Jersey. There John would accompany Revere with his postage delivery to New York— a much quicker route for a young adult most Northerners would rather throw in a cell.

When John had left, rather cheerfully, Franklin had called after John that, should he ever stop by Philadelphia, to “come and amuse an old man”. He’d also heard the old man refer to him as “Joseph”, and strangely John hadn’t been irritated by the tease like he would’ve if his siblings had addressed him with such a name.

Over the two days John had stayed at the Franklin house (after hearing he’d been on trains nonstop, Deborah had insisted he rest a bit) he’d even began regarded the old man somewhat fondly. While he wasn’t exempt from the pranks of Franklin, he never felt  _ belittled—  _ it felt nice. If John hadn’t so uneasy after the developments of the past weeks, he might’ve gotten around to even calling Franklin a friend.

Tapping his fingers against the windowsill of the carriage, John leaned his head back. If he was lucky, he’d be able to get some sleep in before arriving.

* * *

 

After putting much— ‘much’ constituting as hours for Alex— thought in the plan, he’d finally decided that the only way to contact James now would be to see him firsthand. Post took too long and, as he’d recently realized, mostly redundant anyways.

Now the question was just  _ how _ — most definitely Hercules and Lafayette would be against it. If anything, Alex was willing to admit that this plan was at least doubly more rash than his prior one of joining the military (that still wasn’t completely off the table either). That was the reason he was sitting in Burr’s bakery (or was it a cafe? Just like the owner himself, the shop never seemed to be able to decide its classification), a place he’d normally never be caught dead in, waiting for the ever cheerful Elizabeth Schuyler to finish her shift at the telegraph station next door.

After all, as all people who exuded a sunny disposition, Eliza had quite a few people under her finger. One of those people just so happened to be her well-known, rather influential, father, Philip Schuyler, whom Alex was determined could help him possibly sneak into the midst of South Carolina in a war. In tough times, money could do astounding things.

Of course, matters were complicated by Virginia’s secession, but they were details in Alex’s ambitious scheme. Even this meetup was just one step to assisting James— had he asked Eliza’s older sister, Angelica probably would’ve assessed his request and story in a few minutes, deem it irrational the next, and walk out of the bakery-cafe in just two more with a fresh pastry in hand. Angelica had a flair for things like that.

As for Peggy, well, except for the station and Maria’s, he wasn’t quite sure  _ where _ to track down the elusive brunette. That and Peggy was more likely to roll her eyes and say “go tell that to  _ Eliza _ , or someone who cares.”

Alex glanced at the clock hanging slightly off on the wall— Eliza was late.

It wasn’t that the two other Schuyler sisters didn’t care, despite supposed-Peggy’s remark— far from it, simply they had different ways of showing it. Angelica, already respected by the telegrapher, generally assumed that Alex would realize the sense in her opinion and that would be that— and normally it was. But James . . . well, at night, Alex was already imagining what his brother’s face looked like after all the years in the South. When he got to that point, there was no use trying to appeal to his common sense.

Even Peggy— Alex had always liked to compare the youngest Schuyler to a sprightly fairy that darted about—  _ she _ had an unbelievably large heart that dwarfed her size.. She just didn’t like confrontation, easily becoming defensive— something Alex could relate to. Just like the secretive fairies that came in the night, Peggy was more inclined to doing small acts of kindness: a small pat here, an unrequested coffee. 

In her inexplicable way of actions and not words, Margarita Schuyler was a force of nature all by herself.

Still— with delicate,  _ diplomatic _ missions such as these, Alex nodded at a woman’s approaching form, Eliza was the way to go. Sliding into the chair across from him, she gave a strained smile, face slightly pale.

He frowned, “are you alright? What’s wrong?” Alex noted that she didn’t put her purse down, instead clenching it tightly. 

Eliza’s normally bright eyes were dark with tension. “I’m sorry I was late Alex. I- something’s popped up. I might not even be able to stay for long. You mentioned you needed to discuss something with my father?”

“Yeah. Wait, Eliza, what happened?” Alex tried to keep his voice calm, but there was a tinge of nervousness in his voice. Because Philip Schuyler was his last bet— his best bet and his  _ only  _ bet to finding James.

Suddenly Eliza burst into tears— “I’ve been such a  _ awful _ sister! I- I can trust you right?” she paused slightly, shaking as she accepted a coffee from Burr, who gave Alex a meaningful look. Alex knew what it meant—  _ don’t pry too deep. Be subtle— you  _ do _ know the meaning of that word? _

God, even Burr’s stares pissed him off.

“Of course,” Alex replied easily, unease beginning to bubble up. War brewed up troubles for everyone— not just him and his brother. “You can tell me anything.”

“I- oh  _ God _ — I haven’t paid any attention and  _ Peggy _ —” Eliza erupted into a fresh wave of tears, biting her lip anxiously. Finally she calmed down, fingers trembling around the warm coffee mug. “She’s so strong. I don’t even know if I would’ve been able to do  _ half _ of what she did.” A sense of foreboding sank in Alex’s gut.

“ _ What _ happened to Peggy?” he eventually worked out, dread in the pit of his stomach.

“Maria Reyn—” 

“ _ What did she do? _ ” Alex slammed his hands on the table, voice rising in anger. He saw Eliza’s tear-streaked face blink into shock at his sudden outrage and forced himself to calm down, taking deep breaths.

He didn’t trust Maria— he  _ couldn’t _ — not after that time. After Alex had recently arrived in New York, he’d met Maria. She’d seemed alright— nice, even, but he should’ve known that he couldn’t truly trust anyone else.

Something about the woman had just made him want to  _ talk _ , pour out everything— there was a sort of fragile vulnerability that accompanied her rich persona that called for Alex to offer some in return. It’d been a mistake— one day it had been as if a switch had flipped in her mind: a completely new person appeared. Cold and distant, she’d demanded Alex leave her apartment— not that he had needed any encouragement. 

He’d never returned to Maria Reynold’s place (and he had no intention to), but what did  _ she _ want with  _ Peggy _ ? Alex just couldn’t understand how wrapping up Peggy in her ploys would— 

“ _ Alexander Hamilton, shut up! _ ” Eliza shouted.

Alex froze.

“Just please,  _ stop _ for one moment,” she murmured folding and refolding a handkerchief in her hands. “Maria . . . she didn’t do  _ anything _ . I- I don’t care  _ what _ has happened between you two, but Peggy has a good heart and she trusts Maria and helped her out of a really  _ crappy _ place. T-that’s why my father can’t help you right now— he’s a bit busy following Peggy’s commands,” Eliza shakily laughed at that. “I didn’t think she had it in her but at the same time . . . I always knew she would be able to do great things for the people she loves. She just has that  _ vibe _ around her.”

He remained silent— Alex, a man who could spit out essays like carbon dioxide in every breath, was  _ speechless _ . This new, revolutionized picture of Maria just felt  _ strange _ to him— it physically hurt almost, as if she’d intentionally pushed him aside to capture the pity of Peggy. 

“Alex . . . I know you’re hurting from Maria, but  _ please _ don’t confront them. Not yet.” Eliza pleaded as he got up, wearing a stormy expression. He was done with this.

The young man shrugged, “maybe.” Shaking off a comment from Burr, Alex pushed into the streets, where rain had begun to pour down. 

Odd how the weather always seemed to mirror what was inside. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello peoples! I'm actually planning some plot for this :P  
> After I'm done with this fic (who knows when) I'll probably do a poll of some sorts if people want to see a mullete or Maria/Peggy (Maggy? Peria?) fic from this universe :D
> 
> Till next chapter~


	6. Tell Your Sister that She's Gotta Rise Up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All Maria ever did was try her best. Peggy confides in Alex.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uhh, I recall previously stating I procrastinate when writing and normally I do! But this fic mannn.

Words were something essential to Alex— they were always there, a constant that was as necessary as food or water. As soon as they threatened to overflow, he wrote them down, composing what some considered ingenious pieces of literature that were really just his thoughts. Sometimes he didn’t have paper on hand and Alex ended up writing whole speeches or essays in his mind. This is where he found himself mentally whilst walking the last few blocks to the Schuyler Mansion— where he assumed Peggy would be (and by extension, Maria).

The words of anger, perhaps even disappointment, were already partway out his mouth when he entered the large home and saw a red-clad woman ( _ Maria _ , his mind reminded him) trembling on a chair, teardrops rolling down her cheeks. Alex sighed and closed his mouth, instead deciding to approach quietly— hesitantly. He never was as good with women as people took for him to be— he found them mind-boggling— confusing one moment, relatable the next.

Peggy looked up and fixed Alex with a harsh stare one wouldn’t normally associate with her. Her eyes, often appearing like spheres of warm chocolate, were cold, demanding  _ what do you want? _ to him.

“I- Peggy . . .” for the second time that day, Alex found himself speechless, eyes drifting to each woman's tear-smeared face. 

Sniffling loudly, appearing very much like she’d like to physically display her wrath onto his face, Peggy said, “what do you want? I’m too tired to start another fight— if that’s all you’re here for, just  _ leave _ Alexander.” 

Someone evidently had told the Schuyler sisters that today was  _ One-Up Hamilton  _ day, he facetiously mused. 

“I’m not here to do that. Um, fight. Peggy— listen, I want to understand what’s going on,” he spoke softly, realizing as the words were uttered that they were  _ truth _ . Perhaps he could spite Maria from a distance, but that was simple stubbornness— now confronted with said woman weeping agonizingly, he couldn’t help but feel . . .  _ pity? Regret? Sorrow?  _ Things could’ve ended far better between the two. 

None of the words he’d planned on the walk came out, and strangely Alex didn’t  _ feel _ like following that rough draft. He’d compose his own words—  _ he  _ was in control— not the swirling dark mass of his thoughts. 

He wasn’t helpless like before. Wasn’t surrounded by walls of water, wind, and death. He was going to hold his head up and do something he could be  _ proud _ of, dammit.

Peggy looked just about ready to push him right back out the door, when a shaky hand patted her arm reassuringly. “It’s- it’s alright Pegs. He’s not like  _ him _ . . . I need to—  _ we _ need to talk,” Maria murmured. “Alone,” she apologetically reiterated.

Storming out of the living room, the youngest Schuyler shot a death stare that could rival Angelica.  _ You mess with her you mess with  _ me _ , _ it warned.

Swallowing, Alex studied Maria, trying to ignore his prior misgivings. There were pasty-yellow and blue patches on her forearms—  _ bruises _ , he realized. “Hey,” he whispered, as if that would lessen the tense atmosphere of the room.

“Hey.”

He glanced around awkwardly, then returned his gaze to her, “so what did you need to tell me?” There was a hurt, almost defensive, tone in his voice he immediately regretted.

“I’m sorry.” Maria’s voice was raw, vulnerable, and altogether  _ too  _ much like the Maria that Alex had once had affections for. It hurt.

And yet— the apology was so unexpectedly  _ needed _ . It was as if there had been a chunk of shrapnel puncturing him and it had just been removed— it still ached, it would always ache in some way or another— but it was  _ gone _ . A wound that could, with care, heal. His eyes burned and he didn’t trust himself to speak. Instead, Alex took a page from Peggy’s book, silently eying Maria in a way that murmured  _ why _ . Why was she saying ‘sorry’ after everything— after  _ she’d _ been the one to break off the relationship? Did she somehow come to regret the ugly send-off like him? Or was it something deeper— what caused that undeniably genuine stream of sorrow?

Alex couldn’t help but think of a time back  _ then _ — he hadn’t drowned, in fact he seemed to grow exponentially, as if that event had been the essential water for his roots. But a hurricane is terrifying— it leaves scars people can’t see.  _ What scars have you beared? _ he mused.

“I’ve hurt you— haven’t I?” she continued. A statement posed as a question— they both know that it’s true. “I’m . . . sorry about everything. Truly.” Maria spoke slowly, choosing her words carefully. With any other person, Alex would’ve gotten irritated, impatient. Strangely there was almost the opposite effect with her.

“There’s a reason I did that. I- I’ve been tempted to just keep you at a distance— let you believe that I was just a stone-hearted and cruel. But I can’t—  not anymore— partially because of  _ her _ ,” she tilts her head towards the room Peggy escaped to, a faint ghost of a smile on her lips. With that, Maria spoke decisively, with a sort of fervor to get her secrets out— she described her horrid fiance before Alex: James Reynolds, a short man with a temper that dwarfed his height even further. Desperate to throw the territorial man off, she’d tried picking up the next decent guy she ran into, just so happening to find someone that could match her, stride-for-stride, in a way she’d never had before: Alexander Hamilton. 

“You made me laugh— you didn’t beat me or mistreat me,” Maria held her arms self-consciously. 

It was only later she had realized what sort of person he was. “I didn’t want to put you in that position— I- I’d originally walked up to you as a shield,” Maria sniffled, “but you—  _ God _ — Alex, you had—  _ have _ , such potential. J-James could’ve taken that  _ all _ away. You don’t need this in your life,” she gestured disgustedly at herself.

“So I did the only thing I could think of,” she whispered.

“You pushed me away,” he breathed, eyes widening in a sudden realization. He was feeling a sort of light-headed feeling— something, he thought, people had thought when realizing the Earth was truly round. A sort of carpet-pulled-from-beneath-you sensation, except it was all occurring in his mind.

Alex chuckled weakly, “I really  _ am _ a fool, aren’t I?” He could still hear Maria from so long ago spitting those words at him—  _ you are a fool, Alexander _ .

She winced at the words, otherwise making no comment.

“I’m sorry,” he looked at her in the eye, voice hoarse. “I’ve always held you in some notoriety because of that and yet . . . I’ve been a  _ child _ this whole time.”  _ And yet you’ve only acted with my best interest while I have scorned you _ .

Maria brushed a loose lock of hair behind her ear, “I did not make it easy to be likeable, no?” The joke, if it even constituted as one, suddenly made the air in the room marginally easier to breathe. It was a sign of sorts, Alex considered, that perhaps things would be alright. They stared at each other calmly— an unspeakable treaty had been signed, two nemeses brought together into tentative allyship, perhaps friendship— and he could sense  _ it _ .

_ It  _ was always there— a constant storm inside his mind. But for once, Alex could feel a lull in it— a glimpse of yellow sky lurking in the distance.

* * *

 

Peggy greeted him outside the living room, impeachable eyebrows furrowed in a slightly accusing stare. It felt vaguely familiar, Alex considered— she’d probably taken it straight out of Washington’s book.

“So, how’d your  _ chat _ go?” she probed, giving him the sensation of being interrogated. 

He shrugged, “good. Surprisingly,  _ really  _ good.” Peggy was biting her lip, in the way she only did when she was nervous, and her eyes seemed to be focusing elsewhere. “Are you okay Pegs?” he softened his voice.

Throughout the numerous strings of tragedies that littered Alex’s short life, he’d learned that many times kindness was harder to deal with than seriousness. A pat in the back could easily crack a person’s carefully constructed composure— one word of concern enough to drive someone over the edge. This proved to be true with the youngest Schuyler, who promptly burst into a fresh wave of tears. Alex silently watched, sensing she wouldn’t appreciate the close contact after all the boundaries he’d pushed already.

“It’s just—” Peggy rubbed tears away furiously, “— you didn’t see _ her _ when I’d found h-her. I doubt she told you but that  _ bastard _ ,” her voice trembled as she took a few breaths. “He didn’t stop harassing her— it was  _ awful _ . Sometimes he’d really hurt her,” she spoke quietly. “Maria didn’t want to cause trouble for anyone and just kept getting  _ injured _ , more and more, and she made me promise not to tell anyone because it was risky enough as it was—”

Alex’s eyes skimmed over the fine furniture and decor of the Schuyler mansion, gears churning and clicking together in his mind. “Hey, Pegs,” he abruptly paused her ramble. “What did your father have to do with this?”

Laughter.

It was an odd clash to the previous tears, but it was a welcome change. Looking at her with patient amusement, Alex waited for Peggy’s chuckles to end, still perplexed with Philip Schuyler’s involvement with it all.

“Well, part of the way that bastard kept a hold on Maria was that he had the ability to ruin her— after all, what’s one of our words against a man’s?” she glared at her breasts venomously, as if doing so would allow her to escape her body. Burying her irritation with practiced ease, Peggy forced a triumphant grin on her face, euphoria slightly dulled by the statement. “But then I had an idea to get my dad to help— he’d be the perfect defense, y’know? And it worked!” she smiled genuinely, for the first time since Alex stepped in the house.

He couldn’t help a small grin from making its way on his face, feeling his respect for one Margarita Schuyler skyrocket.

Glancing down at her feet, she awkwardly drifted to a different train of thought. “Also . . . I remembered overhearing you talking to Angie about Maria before and . . . um, I just figured it was something she’d want to get off her chest. So, I’m sorry for doubting you Alex— thanks for listening.” Embarrassed by the mouth-rottingly sweet statement, Peggy gave him a sisterly hug then bounced into the other room.

Alex  _ really _ couldn’t help a smile at that— yeah, perhaps the entire nation was being thrust into a war, but things were going good for him. Surprisingly really good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all since I'm all about subtle symbolism and shizz, here's some stuff explained:
> 
> The part about Alex writing his "own words" is basically where this AU's Alex breaks off from the musical canon one. In this 'verse, he's not controlled by his 'ego/ want to create a legacy'. Aka smol bean's growing :)  
> Another part, where Peggy's mentioning how little say women have in things is a reference to how a lot of people characterize Pegs as non-binary. Maybe I do too? I'm not quite sure yet, although I'll be sure to elaborate on it if I write a Peggy/Maria fic ;)
> 
> Anyways, thanks for reading you guys! (I need to think of alternatives to "y'all" asap)


	7. Who is This Kid?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's in the place to be. Alex, well, Alex is there too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello hello hello! Sorry it took so long, I've been on a trip and Procrastination, man. Here it is, the moment you've all been waiting for!

John’s first few thoughts of the “great metropolis of New York” was mostly how  _ sore _ his thighs were, because all the ‘horse-riding’ lessons his father made him partake in really hadn’t done anything. His pain was further emphasized by the fact that Revere, a stout man around forty, was completely unmoved by the three day horseback journey from New Jersey. Even Sybil Ludington, Revere’s ‘postage-running buddy’, who had met up with them by the Hudson River, looked sprightly as ever. His first impression that the woman was rather petite had been much entirely crushed since then— behind her back John secretly glared at the woman’s impeccable appearance, not even marred with sweat.

But his vehement exhaustion was halted for a moment as his eyes took in the sprawling, multistoried buildings that filled the paved streets of New York. It was an awing change from the sparsely littered Southern mansions, with only plantation land between them. John’s chestnut horse rolled its dark eye up at him, as if saying  _ hurry up and follow the others will you? _

He wasn’t quite sure why he kept imagining the horse asking permission to move— it was already practically on autopilot, with him knowing nothing about the tangled mess of reins. Indeed the incompetence of his horseriding abilities probably shed light on the capabilities as a teacher Henry Laurens had.

“Look around and take in the view later,” Revere spoke brusquely, brows knit. He scanned the streets and nodded to himself, “here’s where we’ll depart. Will you be alright on foot from now?”

John eyed the heavy messenger bag weighing down the man’s horse, “I think. What  _ were _ you carrying here? It doesn’t seem like you go here often,” if Revere’s horse’s skittish attitude to the floods of carriages and people ahead was anything to go by.

He laughed and took the offered reins from John as he dismounted. “Very observant Mr. Laurens— normally I stick to Massachusetts, but I’m delivering something for Jouett, who’s been a bit under the weather. Since New York is usually Syb’s turf, she decided to ride with me.” Attaching the chestnut horse to his, he tipped his hat to John, “that said, if you walk in that direction, perhaps you’ll be able to find work or lodging. Good luck.” They clasped hands and John nodded at Sybil, who smiled cheerfully in return.

“Thank you— both of you,” he swallowed the lump in his throat. Even if his entire journey ended up as futile, he’d met multiple people he’d gladly call friends despite only knowing them for a few days.

“Perhaps I’ll see you around!” She bid farewell and urged her horse into a trot after Revere.

Stretching his stiff muscles, John took one last glance at the two companions. A faint smile ghosted his face and then he was off, nimbly swerving through the city traffic of people. But after a few minutes of walking in the general direction of Revere’s instructions, he got an empty-stomach-pit feeling at the realization he wasn’t quite sure  _ what _ to do. His miniscule wallet ensured lodging certainly wouldn’t be an option, but what sort of work would John do? Being cooped up in a smoke-filled factory certainly didn’t seem too attractive, but for many people— and him, if he didn’t want to be some snotty Southerner anymore— it wasn’t an option.

Perhaps sitting in someplace not sweating inside a swarm of bustling people would persuade his mind to make itself up. Scanning the stores that lined the cobbled streets, John tried to focus on reading signs, but the disorienting conversations and shouts that surrounded him were . . .  _ disorienting _ . 

Suddenly, his eye catched on something bright red— the dress of an elegant-looking woman who appeared friendly enough.

Following her, John escaped into the blissful quiet of a cafe, the sound of rich coffee being poured the only noise. Abruptly faced with the lady he’d been using as a guide, John found himself lost for words as she stared at him peculiarly.

“Um . . . hey—” he began and was cut off.

Perfect eyebrow raised, the woman leaned against the counter, taking the mug of coffee without releasing John from her dark eyes. “I’m taken,” she spoke scornfully, breaking his reverie. Scrutinising him, she pulled a face, “you’re not from around here, are you? The name’s Maria.”

He tried to ignore the shop owner's snort of barely disguised chuckles, and just gawked at Maria’s smirking face that somehow didn’t appear condescending.  _ Damn _ .

* * *

 

“So let’s get this clear— you ran  _ away _ from you home, which is in the  _ South _ , during a  _ war _ , in which the North and  _ South _ are fighting? Let’s not ignore the fact that you crossed the border  _ into _ the North, your enemy?” Maria cupped her lukewarm coffee, voice revealing her amusement at John’s predicament. He’d noticed that the eyebrow raise was one of her favorite gestures.

The curly-haired man shrugged, “that’s the gist of it.”

“You could always get a job here, but I wouldn’t blame anyone for not wanting to chill with  _ Mr. Boring-Burr _ over here, every day,” she grinned.

“Mr. Boring Burr” had walked over during their conversation and placed another cup of coffee in front of John. When he tried to protest— it was doubtful he had the money for even the first— Burr gave a smile smile, “it’s on the house, Mr. Laurens.”

The address had quickly become old and slightly reminiscent of Henry Laurens. John winced, “please, just call me John.”

Nodding, Burr’s dark brown eyes seemed to understand without the Southerner even explaining. “Next door, there’s a telegraph station owned by George Washington. He’s a good man— he might give you a job, though they’re in a tough situation as of late.”

Unexpectedly, Maria started giggling, “oh stop being such a  _ downer _ — of  _ course _ the General would give him the job! You’re just pissy cause he dropped you, since you never got the hang of all the abbreviations and took to slow!” John watched the familiar exchange between the two and couldn’t help but laugh.

The shop owner rolled his eyes, “there’s enough of  _ that _ story, Maria please—”

“ _ Who actually  _ asks  _ the person on the other end to  _ resend _ a message just  _ in case _? _ ” she wheezed out between puffs of laughter. “The machine  _ writes _ it down for a reason!” Burr muttered something under his breath, making Maria giggle even harder.

“Alright,” John took one last sip of coffee, broad grin plastered on his face—  this was a place he could get used to. 

“Where do I sign  up?

* * *

 

Alex yawned and boredly watched the candle drip lower and lower as the night drew on. Ever since two days ago when Peggy, in much better spirits than before, had told him to look out for a ‘new one’ in the station, he’d tried to stay alert in the obscure parts of the night. After all, it was a sort of ritual in the telegraph station to give the newbie to one of the older staff to show them the ropes. Another, unofficial, tradition was to do it when the ‘mentor’ was as off-guard as possible— like when Lafayette had come into the station when Hercules had been working on fixing a hole in a shirt . . . whilst being shirtless.

No way was Alex going to be caught  _ sleeping _ or something absurd  _ if _ Washington came.  _ John _ , Alex mouthed, testing the name on his tongue. That was the only thing Peggy had told him about the recruit, to the telegrapher’s disappointment. Yeah, no way he would fall asl—

He blinked and blearily found the normally serious face of Washington staring down at him with a grin on it. Lunging out of his slouch in an attempt to make himself look tidier, Alex slammed his forehead into another person— “agh,” he grunted, wiping drool from his mouth. No messages had arrived in the night, leaving the office quiet— perfect for lulling a sleep-deprived Alexander Hamilton to unconsciousness. 

Scowling, he stared at the man (a rather  _ good-looking _ man, to be precise), who was rubbing his smarting nose, and Alex presumed him to be the new telegrapher. Face red, he turned away and glared at Washington, “how  _ long  _ were you staring at my corpse-like body?” he demanded.

The man chuckled, “only a few minutes. Alex, meet John Laurens, who’ll be tagging along with you for the next week or so. Good luck you two.” With that and a clap to the shoulder, he left.

Clearing his throat, Alex looked away from John’s face, eyes drifting around the lean man’s body—  _ nope, bad idea— stick to the face. _ “Hey,” he croaked attractively.

_ Smooth Hamilton, smooth. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys I love hearing back from you! Thanks for reading :)


	8. Brothers with Something to Prove

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John learns the ropes and begins to branch out on his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Long time, no see guys! (heh, *dodges thrown fruits* sorryyy)  
> I'm still in the pit of Assassination Classroom, but rest assured, I have PLANS for this fic, so I'm definitely keeping it going.

“Wait— John— _stop_ —” Alex stumbled over the messy desk, filled with papers for an article that was due in a week. The man in question was tapping repeatedly, in no particular pattern, on the telegraph, sending random flashes of electricity through the lines to wherever their station connected (Alex still wasn’t quite sure— just that the messages that did come through were often coded, secretive, and specifically for Washington). Undeniably adorable freckled face aside, he _so_ wasn’t worth getting some penalties from the General.

Nearly tackling the tall Southerner, Alex pushed John aside and quickly typed “sry nw per” with his nimble fingers. _Sorry, new person_ — hopefully the operator on the other end wouldn’t be too offended by whatever Laurens had sent. Staring at him strangely, an unreadable expression on his face, John peered at the weathered, yellow parchment that held the letter-to-taps key.

“How’d you _do_ that?” he questioned to himself.

Feeling his mind go into autopilot, the energy burst from his nap wearing off, Alex began mumble-ranting: “the telegraph thing you were prodding is the key— it’s the thing that completes the electrical circuit so a burst of, well, _electricity_ , can be sent down the line to the other side. From there the electricity powers another sort of tappy-thing that makes marks on paper— like over here— and that’s how the operator translates the dots and dashes to words and phrases.” He cringed at the eloquence of his speech.

Grinning at him, John pointed at the morse code paper, “thanks for the lesson _Professor_ Hamilton, but I was wondering about how you sent a message so quickly. From what I can see you only tapped, what, thirty times? But that doesn’t seem like enough to write a whole sentence.”

“That’s because I only did a few words,” he muttered quickly— apparently flustered Alexander was modest, for once, too. Alex ignored the increasing heat rising to his face by the fact John _knew my last name without Washington or me telling him_ wha— _yeah_ , Eliza was right when she said he needed to get married already.

Clearing his throat in a dignified manner, he sat back down in his seat. “It’s cause telegraphers use abbreviations, to make communication faster and more efficient.” Grabbing the nearest pen, Alex began scribbling down the first ones that came to mind. “Keep in mind some abbreviations don’t work in some situations, since it can mix up with other words. You gotta be efficient, but practical. Like don’t use ‘r r’ for ‘are our’, since you can mix it up with ‘for our’. And . . . um, okay, that’s all the ones I have at the top of my head.”

Awkwardly, with his constantly moving hands (the finger tapping he blamed on becoming a telegrapher), he pushed the paper towards John, some forty abbreviations and their English-variants scribbles in Alex's cramped handwriting. Even his words on paper squeezed together in anticipation for more nonstop action.

John whistled, “you telegraphers are full of surprises aren’t you?”

Alex smiled, trying to avoid appearing anxious, though he’s probably already failed. “Eh, all telegraphers need to know at least some of these. If not,” he gave a crooked grin, “you’ll be eaten _alive_.”

The other man scratched his curly hair, “fearsome prospect.” He picked up the paper— “I look forward to it.”

“Good luck with that— if worse comes to worse, you can always join Burr on the other side,” the telegrapher nodded to the cafe’s bordering wall. They both laughed at that.

* * *

 

John had never liked meticulous activities augmented with copious amounts of memorization— a sort of instinct left over from Henry Laurens’ micromanagement of his eldest son. Medical school never really suited him.

It was also a reason why John found himself so attracted to the loose, easy lines of sketches— it never put the pressure of full-blown portraits upon him, but still allowed a sort of relaxing release from stress. Maybe that was also why he found himself inevitably attracted to the ball of coem like a vacation.

However, it _didn’t_ explain how the tutoring sessions wormed their way into John’s mpacted nerves and worry named Alexander Hamilton— the small man made John’s life semental list of ‘anticipated things’ (appearing right under _Hamilton_ ). If anything, he should’ve despised them: hours of sitting in a cramped office meant for a single operative, cramming telegraph terminology and whatever else the shorter man thought of (John found South Carolinian education repeatedly bashed whenever in Alex’s presence. Somehow, he didn’t mind that much).

Over the weeks, John had stayed with the Marquis, a bouncy fellow with a sort of nobility without the snob, until Alex had suggested he move to the empty room next to Hercules and him. “It’s better you move in than some other stuffy, Seabury-look alike. At least Howe’s gone— I’ll say you’d make a much better neighbor than _him_.” At this, Hercules had rolled his eyes at the pompous sentiment, but John couldn’t help but feel slightly honored by the compliment.

That’s how he found himself walking, in the sudden downpour, rushing to reach Lafayette’s to get his stuff to move into his new apartment. Or at least, that’s was what he’d _planned_ to do— he scowled at the sky, there’d be little chance of that. If he tried now, John’s few possessions would soil.

And yet, despite the icy rain that still shocked John to the bone compared to South Carolina, it was _nice_ . His mind flashed to the morning spent tutoring with Alex— _it feels like home_ . The towering buildings instinctively appeared like a protective wall to him, not just from the South, who gave John the feeling of lost friends, but perhaps . . . his father suddenly appeared in his mind’s eye. A way to finally break free— _in New York you can be a new man_ , John recalled Franklin explaining to him, a muted feeling of longing on the man’s face.

 _Everyone wants to reset something_.

The sheets of rain began truly slamming down in earnest and John ducked and ran into the nearest building. Screw getting to the Marquis’ much less bringing his stuff back to Seabury’s building— he’d have to wait the storm out in . . . wherever he was.

He looked up, curls dripping from the rain, and unconsciously breathed in— _whoa_ . It was like the electricity from the air had electrified _him_ — like he was some telegraph wire in Alex’s books. He wasn’t quite sure how many, but _paintings_ , perhaps hundreds, filled the walls. It was _phenomenal_ . Luck seemed to be pitying him lately— but an _art museum_?

John grinned to himself, giddy with adrenaline from the storm and his discovery.

Restraining himself from tracing his nail over the immaculate paintings— _oil?_ he mused to himself. John walked through the different isles, lost in the various pieces, the Revolutionary War seeming to be a pressing theme. _Patriotism_ . He always was a fan of messages in art— perhaps if the generals from the North and South gathered over some tea and heart-felt paintings, there wouldn’t be a war. John sighed, _wishful thinking_.

“You enjoy my paintings?” An elderly man with an eyepatch strolled up to him easily.

Speechless at being caught snooping, John hesitantly nodded. _What is it with me and stealthy old men?_

He smiled benignly, not bothered by the younger man’s intrusion, “it’s good there are some lads these days still intrigued by the fine arts.” The old man pointed at the painting before him— a stern officer, perhaps a general, in blue and gold colors, powdered wig upon his head as he stared into the distance with dark grey eyes and rosy features, “do you recognize him?”

John struggled for words are the odd change of events— the old man’s stoic expression made it hard to think of him as kindly. The eyepatch didn’t help. At least he wasn’t being kicked out into the rain.

“Er, that’s Chris Jackson, right? The first president,” John muttered, trying to focus on the painting and not the penetrating stare of the old man.

He laughed— a soft bellow— and grinned, “correct! They _do_ teach things at school then— from the South, I presume?” _Again?_ John groaned. “My name is John Trumbull— a pleasure to meet someone as young as yourself that’s into art.”

John shook the hand and took the moment to look around at the museum. As he observed it further, he realized it was in rather shoddy shape for a place to store and exhibit priceless works. “Are you the only one here?” he asked, surprised by the condition of the building. It was surprising the paintings seemed undamaged thus far.

Trumbull scratched the back of his head, “I suppose— money’s always a bit challenging to get by, but I want to keep this place up. People deserve to see art.” Simple, humble goals— John respected that. It was certainly more than Henry Laurens ever gave him.

He realized he hadn’t even given his name, “oh, I forgot— apologies, my name’s John as well.” They smiled at that— odd how easily something as simple as a shared name could build a bridge so easily. “Do you— ah, _would_ you, be willing to, possibly, hire anybody?”

John’s mind went to Alex explaining how they all had side jobs, “a way to keep going if the station slows” he’d said. “I usually write articles for a newspaper, Herc has his tailoring, we all have a backup, of sorts.”

His brain was already firing up, imagination going hyper in that artistic way of his. Perhaps Henry Laurens pushing John into carpentry hadn’t been such a waste of time— _with the right materials I could definitely patch this place up. . ._

Trumbull smiled wearily at the curly-haired telegrapher’s eagerness, “I’m afraid there’s not much room, or money, for an employee.”

John didn’t know if other’s worked like so paradoxically, but in situations where his desire was refuted, it simply made his mind latch on harder. In a hypothetical room with a button saying _do not touch_ , he was the one aching to press it. “Please, _sir_ , I’ll do whatever you need me to do— clean up this shabby place a bit, I also have another job so you wouldn’t need to pay me a lot, just a little. I just _really_ want to be a part of . . . _this_ ,” he gestured around the room, heart in his throat.

The old man’s face darkened and he turned away from John. Crestfallen, the younger man made to leave when Trumbull spoke up, “in the future, I hope you won’t refer to our place as _shabby_ — deters customers.

John’s face lit up, “I— thanks. Thank you.”

* * *

 

After talking through the rain with Trumbull, John had borrowed an umbrella and walked through the gentle drizzle. After he picked up his few bags, he’d return to Seabury’s building to get situated in the apartment.

Body still thrumming with the rush of getting the job on his own merit— surprising how good it felt not to get something on the basis that your father is Henry Laurens— the walk to Lafayette’s house seemed shorter than ever. The only one out of the quadret with room to spare was the Marquis, who had used most of his inheritance to buy himself a comfy little house, making him the ideal person for John to stay with.

“Hey, Laf— guess what happened to—” he broke off as he saw the taller man shove his shirt down hurriedly, but not before John had seen _them_ . “Sorry,” he called to the Frenchman, who slammed the door to his room behind him. “ _Lafayette_ — I- I’m sorry! I should’ve knocked!” He hesitantly waited at the door.

The wooden door opened silently, slowly, and Lafayette looked at John, gauging the freckled man’s reaction. For the second time that day, he feared immediate eviction. Finally, in his accented English, the Marquis sighed, “it’s fine, John. I was merely changing— just knock next time, yes?” Moving in his fluid way to the kitchen, he began preparing tea, “now, my friend, tell me what has excited you so.”

Smiling reluctantly, John sat on the couch and began explaining the day.

“Well, you know that awful rain earlier . . .”

But they both knew that the curly-haired man had seen them— covering nearly the entirety of Lafayette’s upper back— dark, faded _scars_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading ^^
> 
> Also note that (I'm such a tease jfc) there's more to Burr leaving the telegraph crew than it looks like ;)


	9. When's It Gonna Get Me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's raining and they're running.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahh this chapter was so hard to write but worth it. Wow- hope y'all enjoy.  
> (a bit more cussing than normal, heh, mostly for the atmosphere)

Alex looked at the ink blankly, scribbled words scarring themselves into his mind— as if it wasn’t parchment being scratched, but his brain matter. _JamesJamesJamesJamesJames_ his mind hummed— how could he forgotten that? Secretly, he knew how: the mantra of his brother’s name had steadily been replaced over the weeks with John Laurens.

 _Damn his eyes_ , Alex bit his lip, tracing his fingers over the letter— the _plea_ — to him.

His one chance to finally repay James for all those shelters during stormy nights, for all his cocky reassurances, for allowing Alex to rely upon him for so long— _have I already lost it?_ No— his fingernails cut into his palm, the pain clearing his mind, slowing his breathing. _Think Hamilton— that’s what you do best. Do_ not _throw away your shot_.

Sitting in his chair and pulling out writing materials, Alex began composing a plan, icy anger sharpening his movements— contrary to what his loud mouth suggested, the telegrapher’s real fury poured out like molten glass, giving a deadly clarity to his mind. The brief calm before the storm— his mind accelerated into hyperdrive, splitting into two threads of thought.

He’d have to get to get to James somehow.

_No one notices a bastard orphan._

New York to South Carolina— how could he traverse such a distance with a war between the North and South?

_That’s why I have to work harder._

Or _maybe_ , the war was his blessing.

_Be smarter than anyone else._

The perfect distraction.

_More than anyone else, I have to make sure that if I have so much as a pen, I’m feared._

It was the only way— his life didn’t matter, his life was _this_ mission.

_It’s the only way._

Rubbing his temples, Alex breathed slowly and stood up. Perhaps Lafayette would have something to assist him while suicidally traipsing through enemy territory. He gave a crooked smile to himself— whenever he thought of James now, it wouldn’t have to be accompanied by that wretched sense of guilt. Touching the envelope gently, reverently, he nodded— “I’m coming for you,” he promised to the empty room.

* * *

 

John stood up, the air in the room heavy and tense— after quietly, and rather awkwardly, telling Lafayette about Trumbull, he’d easily gotten the sense his presence _really_ wasn’t needed at the moment. He set down the tea cup, now only a third full of lukewarm tea. “I- I’m sorry, Lafayette— I’ll grab my things and just go—”

The tall man sighed and cut him it, “it’s . . . fine.” It was anything but. “Just please keep this to yourself— it was a long time ago . . . it’s just personal.” Halfway through, Lafayette’s normally impeccable English breeched into French, a habit of his when under stress. John’s gut churned at that thought.

“Of course,” he responded fluently, curious, but well-aware that he was a cat dangerously close to being killed. “Is all my stuff still in the room?”

Staring blankly at his cup, the Frenchman blinked and nodded. If he hadn’t just moved, John might’ve believed he’d turned into stone, a fragile statue that would crumble away in the sunlight.

Grabbing his knapsack and extra bag, he walked back to the door, hesitating at the threshold. He was never good at words— words were for clever Alex or scheming Henry Laurens. Somehow all John’s jumbling thoughts always got lost in translation from mind to mouth.

“I’m sorry. And thank you— for hosting me,” he spoke, voice sounding hoarse even to himself. He let himself out, his last view of Lafayette: the man rubbing his knuckles, a perturbed expression on his face.

The sloshing sensation of half-digested tea in John’s stomach solidified into something worse— _regret_.

* * *

 

Alex felt like _punching_ something— his frustration levels always fluctuated between _write everything away_ or _fight_ . Unfortunately, this time around the only opponent was himself, there was no _other man_ to write paper after paper about, tearing him apart, theoretical limb for limb. He ran his fingers through his frazzled hair, feeling like a scream was building up. _JamesJamesJamesJamesJames_.

The blasted rain from the morning had only accelerated his jumpy mind— it threw him back to the wretched island in the middle of the unforgiving sea. Every clap of thunder Alex’s heart leaped with dragged him back, as if nothing changed. It was always one step forward, five steps back.

It wasn’t often he really _felt_ his height, but the fear made him feel helpless. He despised that.

Only adding to the irritation of the day, Burr’s cafe had been closed for the day, meaning Alex couldn’t even storm down there and needlessly argue with the man like he usually did. Hercules had also been nowhere to be seen, probably out delivering some commission.

When a few knocks hit the door, Alex was ready to throw some punches— _he has the audacity to_ forget _his goddamn key?_ He wrenched open the door, “I swear by Washington’s clean-shaven head, Herc, I am going to _murder_ —”

A sopping wet John Laurens looked at him blankly. “Um, I was going to get my key for the room next door, but Seabury isn’t there, so I was hoping I could stay here for a bit— uh, but it looks like it’s not a good time, should I go?” he muttered hurriedly.

Alex saw red— he should’ve stopped, he _knew_ he should’ve stopped, took a breather— but he didn’t. Nonstop Alexander Hamilton rarely did what he should’ve— that was how he got to where scum like him should’ve never been able to get to in the first place. His mouth was moving before he can scream _shut up_ at himself.

“Oh look— it’s mister I Have Connections! What’ve you come around for? Here to flaunt your money? Or perhaps your wealthy family?” He knew he hurt John with that one— the Southerner only recently told him about Henry Laurens— what he has portrayed was Not Good. _Stop_. He didn’t.  

“Well, guess _what_ — not everyone goddamn has that! Now the only way I’m going to save my brother— who's stranded in the middle of _fucking_ South Carolina— is— _I don’t even know_ . Just _leave_ John— you can’t get into your apartment? I’m sorry, I think I have a few larger issues than that. Go back and run to your rich father— running away seems to be the only thing you’re competent at anyways.”

They were both breathing hard by the end of his explosion: Alex from quickly-draining irritation, John from something unreadable. The man’s face was stiff, stuck between hurt and ice— unable to comprehend the _shit_ he’s just been piled with. _ShitShitShitShitSHIT_.

“John—”

Glass shattered.

The taller man’s bag fell onto the ground and the doorway was empty, leaving only a tearing feeling inside Alex. Dogs barked in the background and the world felt like chaos as thunder clapped and he screamed.

* * *

 

 _South Carolina_.

John was desperate. It was pretty clear he’d majorly messed up things with Alex, but there was one thing he _could_ do. _Yeah, I might be only good at running away, and I_ do _have connections I don’t really deserve._ Breathing heavily at the bottom of the stairs, he glanced at the pouring sheets of rain outside, noting his already drooping curls. _I might as well use them them._ Without further hesitation, he dove into the rain.

He wasn’t quite sure _where_ to go, but he was ninety-percent sure that Angelica would know where the post station was. Hopefully she’d be on shift at the telegraph station.

John quickly gave up on shielding his face, limbs already thoroughly soaked and chilled, Alex’s words slicing through him. And he’d _just_ started to maybe acknowledge the fluttery feeling inside his gut whenever their eyes connected. He really should’ve just stayed in the South. _So why are you still running?_ He asked himself. Watching the splashes of water on the New York cobbled streets, John realized he wasn’t running _away_ now. _I’m done being a coward._ The numbing rain rejuvenated him— _I want to fight. For myself and . . ._ everyone.

For Alex, for Angelica, Eliza, and Peggy, for Lafayette and Hercules— even for goddamn _Burr_ . These people made John laugh, smile— they made John feel like _John_.

Slamming the door open to the familiar telegraph station, he pushed hair out of his face and felt his new optimism flip flop— _not Angelica_.

“John,” the Marquis nodded acknowledgement, dark eyes wary. “You don’t have a shift today, do you?”

Clearing his throat, he shook his head, “do you know where the post station is? I need to find Sybil— Sybil Luddington!” She was the only one he knew that could get in touch with Franklin, and would be willing to for John’s sake. Grabbing a paper and envelope, John began writing like a madman, ignoring the burning in his hand as he wrote word after word— _is this what Alex feels like?_

Eyebrow raised, Lafayette scrutinized him further, taking in his shivering form and red-rimmed eyes. He took on a concerned expression, “ _mon ami_ , are you alright?”

“No I’m not— Laf, you’ve got to tell me!” John bit his lip, desperation quickly grasping his mind. He completed the letter and prayed the water wouldn’t ruin it. Against better judgement, the Frenchman rattled off a street and a few numbers and the other man dashed out like his life depended on it. Maybe it did.

 _AlexAlexAlexAlexAlex_.

He found the station eventually, the inside empty, with only a lone candle burning quietly. “ _Shit_ ,” John yelled, partially an exclamation of frustration, partially a possibly motivational war-cry to himself. After two wrong turns, he found the stables, finally hearing people.

For once, he was lucky.

“Sybil!”

The woman was just finishing putting the clasps of her saddle onto a horse, breaking off her conversation with the other man as she looked at John. Surprise and recognition lit her gaze, “what are you doing here John?! I’m just about ready to set out!” They both had to shout to be heard over the rain— it was oddly therapeutic.

“Are you heading by Franklin’s?” he called, clenching the letter in his hand.

Eyebrow raised, Sybil reluctantly nodded, “you’re in luck— Philadelphia's one of my stops.”

“I need you to get this to him! I- I don’t have money on me right now,” his voice trembled as he realized _this sort of thing isn’t free_ . “But I’ll pay you back— _please_ , Sybil, I’ve got to—”

“We’ll take it,” the other, rather intimidating, man broke in. He took the crumpled letter, almost looking like he was _tsk_ ing John’s abuse of it. Their hands brushed and he shivered— the man was like Revere with twenty extra pounds of muscle.

“Jouett!” Sybil scowled, “that’s not something we can just _do_ —”

“We’re not monsters, are we?” Jouett rumbled. “If it comes to it, you can track him down.”

She sighed and rolled her eyes, “I suppose. We’ll get your letter to Franklin— I assume you’ll want the reply?”

Again, John found himself speechless. “Thanks,” he choked out, feeling the uncanny need to cry. _I love New York_. “Thank you.”

Sybil smiled dryly, “that’s what we’re hired for, right?”

He gave a watery grin. _Alex_.


	10. Ask Anybody Why We Livin’ Fast and Laugh

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex and John are both nervous wrecks, John slightly less so.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo I'm #notdead! School's just been . . . irritating. Anyways, enjoy :) Disclaimer: "slow burn" is a tag for a reason

_ A picture frame. _ Gently brushing glass away from the photo and John’s things, Alex examined the young woman painted. She was smiling gently, eyes slightly reminiscent of the curly-haired telegrapher himself.  _ A sibling? _ He didn’t have anything of the sort— not of James nor his mother.

His own voice pierced through his thoughts, making him wince at the harshness—  _ here to flaunt your money? Or perhaps your wealthy family? _ Nononono—  _ why _ had he said such a thing? John wasn’t like that. John wasn’t that spiteful or bitter—  _ but then why did he leave? _ His traitorous mind whispered. Like the man couldn’t even be bothered to try rescue the blazing bridge of Alex. He’d been burned one too many times to try sticking around.

_ MyfaultMyfaultMyfaultMyfault _ .

He tried to ignore his traitorous thoughts—  _ maybe she isn’t even a sibling. A  _ lover _?  _ It wasn’t like the man wasn’t rather handsome . . . .

Alex curled on himself, pressing against the hard wall. His vision swam with frustrated tears as he glared at the photograph and letter. Biting his lip didn’t stop the gasping shivers and wracked his body— like he was weightless, pushed around by everything and nothing.

Sniffling, Alex gave up on wiping his streaming eyes and shut them, feeling like a leaden tent collapsing upon itself. If he dislocated his mind enough, he could imagine he was back in his home as a boy— before things got rough, when he’d still been able to easily attend schooling, when his mother had still walked the Earth. Looking upon her trembling son, Rachel Hamilton would’ve raised her eyebrows,  _ tsk _ ed a bit, and pinched Alex’s cheeks, all the while gently teasing, “what’s got my little scholar all up in a mess? Can’t spell a few words? Not to worry— Mama’s here to help!” Despite the woman being largely uneducated, her quiet appreciation of books had passed to her son.

Alex could almost feel the warmth of one of their old skin blankets enveloping him, the roar of a fireplace crackling nearby. Before he could think of doing otherwise, an exhausted, raw telegrapher drifted off.

* * *

 

When John returned, he arrived to an unconscious Alex and  _ terrifyingly _ huge piles of cloth— it only just stuck him how he’d never been actually  _ in _ Herc and Alex’s apartment before and  _ wow that is a lot of sewing supplies _ . The later man was uncomfortably sleeping on the wooden floor, shifting around every few minutes until John dug out a heavy blanket to drape over him. He tried to ease the anxiety in his chest with the contented sigh that escaped Alex as heat began soaking back through him. 

John would wake him up later—  _ not now. I can’t deal with confrontation just now _ . After all, he was trespassing in the home of a man who probably despised him. Sighing, he looked around, wondering if there was an discrete way for him to get a new change a clothes— hypothermia was  _ so _ not the way to go.

Finally digging out a shirt and trousers that looked somewhat his size, John ducked into the closest room he could find and began stripping down. Goosebumps sprang up at the sudden burst of cold air contacting his skin as he peeled off his wet layers— God, if the situation wasn’t so different, he might’ve considered ducking under Alex’s toasty blanket right then. Might’ve. After tucking the dry shirt in and wringing out his curls, John peered around the room he’d gone into and realized  _ I’m in Alex’s room _ . The revelation of  _ this is where Alexander Hamilton sleeps _ really shouldn’t have made quite so giddy. 

Was this illegal? He considered while gently looking through the papers on the shorter man’s desk, most of it in cramped scrawls undecipherable to him. Technically, he was already stealing the clothing. As his eyes darted over the pages, dryer clothes be damned, a shiver ran through John at one of the readable passages. 

_ He wants to run away . . . to  _ South Carolina _? _

His heart felt like stopping right there.  _ His  _ brother—  _ of course _ . Alex was almost proving himself as foolish as John when he’d train-hopped all the way to New York.  _ This is why I contacted Franklin, right? _ The snarky part of his mind dryly commented. But acknowledging that the telegrapher had been willing to leave the life he’d sacrificed everything for, just for his brother— without even  _ telling _ anyone (even John)—it hurt.

_ Because naturally Alex doesn’t trust me— he doesn’t trust anyone. He’s been fighting battles meant for two by himself his whole life _ . John felt like slamming his fist into the wall— the desk—  _ anything _ . What was the point if Alex didn’t even feel like telling him something like this?

What was the point in  _ anything _ if Alex wasn’t  _ Alex _ — constantly chattering, debating, conversing, breathing—  _ living _ ? 

_ He  _ would’ve told the man something like this in a heartbeat because— because . . . well, it’s  _ Alexander _ . 

John’s face heated up with a blush and his mind short-circuited.  _ I . . .  _ oh _. _

* * *

 

Alex woke up to the smell of something—  _ a pastry?— _ whatever it was— smelt  _ heavenly _ . He tried to stand up, and, failing, realized he was in his bed, a warm blanket embracing him. He blinked, trying to recall the events before unconsciousness and after his breakdown.  _ Wait— Herc’s out today that means— _

John.

Running his hands through his disheveled hair, Alex realized it must’ve been the taller man who got him into his bedroom. Which meant— _ohGodohGodohGod. Did he see me crying— did he see my desk— did he see_ anything _?_ Stop— _breathe_. Breathe slower. Breathe in general. _Did he see the letter_?

He pulled in another breath, distantly noting that he was hyperventilating. What would John think?  _ John didn’t know _ . He’d feel betrayed. Hurt. Hurt by  _ Alex _ . Because Alex was dumb and stupid and didn’t think and shot off at the mouth and generally Not Good.  _ John _ was Not Good.  _ Is that wine that Laf brought over still here— _

“Alex do you want some bread? You guys didn’t have much, but I put some sugar and butter on it— I hope that’s alright. You’re not allergic to any of this are you? I have a feeling Burr’d be the one to give you even if you had allergies. Here, sit on the couch, it’s more comfortable— I just didn’t want to move you as you were sleeping but your back probably aches some . . . .” John’s weak chuckle faded. “Alex? Alexander?”

Alex blinked and slowly shifted his eyes to the curly haired man. The shorter man’s thin frame barely registered the other’s arms around him, easily lifting him onto the warm couch. Everything felt surreal. His heart felt like he was running, and yet frozen at the same time.  _ He’s here. He’ didn’t leave. _ Had that period of chaos and dead silence and absence of John just been his imaginings? Steady, rattling breaths eased their way in and out. He felt as if his voice had been sealed away— sealed in the blue eyes staring at him with concern. “I—” he rasped. He couldn’t finish the  _ fine _ . He wasn’t— Alex considered the afternoon’s events.

Maybe he hadn’t been for awhile.

His hand brushed the floor and he flinched as his fingers touched glass.  _ Oh . . . the photo _ . He swallowed, “I- I’m sorry— I’ll get a new frame or—”

Warm hands gently, hesitantly touched his face, guiding eyes to eyes. John gave a weary grin, “it’s fine, Alex. I haven’t thought about Mary for a long time.” Still, there was a distant look of  _ longing _ in his eyes and guilt pooled in Alex’s gut. 

_ Stupid. She probably  _ is _ his lover and he’s feeling bad about spending so much time around me and now he’s regretting this. _ After all, why  _ wouldn’t _ someone like John  _ not _ have a lover, or at the very least, a fiance? The terrible, squishy, melted-gut sensation didn’t subdue and somehow he found it . . . excruciatingly  _ pleasant? _ His mind couldn’t string the words together any more eloquently— not with John’s warm breath on his face like that. 

“Anyways would you like some bread?” the man offered, suddenly removing his hands from their intimate position, face slightly red. Alex gave him the benefit of the doubt— the apartment  _ was _ rather humid from the rain. 

With trembling hands, he accepted the bread, munching on the soft texture.  _ Who knew Theodosia had taught Burr to bake so well? _ Easily, sinking back into the recess of his mind, Alex eagerly clung to the respite from the world. It was just him, the surprisingly tasty bread, and ridiculing Burr. It was quiet, almost peaceful. The tenseness from his shoulders never eased, but as John returned with his own slice of bread, Alex comfortably shifted over so the taller man could sit next to him, thoughtfully keeping his distance.

“Thank you,” he murmured.

Alex felt shaky, exhausted and tired— and yet all was almost right with the world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Um hey, I got a tumblr :/  
> Feel free to bug me <3  
> http://spacenwhales.tumblr.com/


	11. Laurens, I like You a Lot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Feelings are realized, cuddles ensue.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for the support on this fic!! (wow, almost a thousand hits??! Tysm >.

Alex was asleep again. John shifted, his arm pinned beneath the small scholar. He gave a fond grin and stilled, eyes sliding over the room. He bit his lip, contemplating the events of the day— rather the events of the entire time he’d landed in New York.  _ Insane _ —  _ that’s _ what it was.

It seemed that, by accepting the wild storm of Alexander Hamilton in his life, he'd also brought upon himself unending chaos and thrill. It was an odd thing to be addicted to.

Suddenly Henry Laurens squirmed into the back of his mind:  _ it's wrong _ . John’s easy breathing tightened. He was aware of multiple things— his arm around Alex, their breaths mingling together, their bodies cuddling. Touching. Them. Together. Alex.  _ It's wrong _ . Everything Alex had worked for his entire life— gone in an instant because of John.  _ Wrong  _ ( _ they’ll _ find out).  _ This is wrong  _ (they always do). Because that's right—  _ South Carolina.  _ His father. There was no escaping  _ his  _ wrath.

He felt Alex move and the smaller man rubbed his eyes. Wiping sleep from his eyelashes shouldn’t have done so much to John’s chest. It brought warmth and also . . . aching.

“You saw them, didn’t you?” Alex murmured.

John stiffened, “what do you mean?” 

The telegrapher turned towards him, their noses barely brushing. “The papers— my . . . plans.” His eyes searched John’s, unreadable. 

Betrayal hurt. He faintly nodded. “You were going to leave us.”  _ Leave me _ . John’s eyes glanced towards Alex’s lips and confusion clouded his mind.  _ This is wrong _ .  _ This is _ — their foreheads touched—

“John—”

The door knocked. Awkwardly falling from the couch, John stumbled to the door, face red. “Hello? This is kind of a bad—  _ oh _ , Sybil . . . .”

The messenger looked amused, glancing at petrified Alex, then to the ruffled Southerner. “Am I interrupting? Ben replied, here you go. He said for me to help you to Philadelphia if you guys choose to.” Her eyebrows quirked, “I’ll get going then so you boys can resume . . . whatever.”

“It wasn’t anything!” John scowled, Henry Laurens’ voice grating against the back of his head. “It’s  _ not  _ . . . anything.”

He can feel waves of hurt from Alex like knives in his back.

“ _ Sure _ . I’ll see you later Laurens,” Sybil grinned and waved. “You’re friend too— if Franklin’s reaction was accurate.” Face warm, he closed the door calmly, hand clenching the door knob.

He glanced at the heavy letter, smooth paper and fancy cursive in dark ink gave hint to the degree John had initially misjudged the old man.  _ This . . .it decides everything. _ Not even the battle cries of Henry Laurens would stop John from breaking the promises he made to himself. He wasn’t  _ that _ sort of guy. After a few minutes of merely staring, anxious, at the letter, he heard the rustle of Alex shuffling over from the couch.

“Who’s that from?” the shorter man tried peeking over John’s shoulder and adorably failed. A weak chuckle rumbled in his chest and he showed it to Alex. They made their way back to the couch as the telegrapher, evidently trying to break the tension, broke into a tangent. “Wait—  _ B. Franklin _ — you know  _ Benjamin Franklin _ ?! How? When did you even go to Philadelphia? How’d you send this to him? He’s one of the most brilliant minds ever— I met him once when he visited Princeton but that’s it. He’s a cool guy— what’re  _ you  _ talking about with  _ him _ ?” Clearly, John was a bit lower in Alex’s standards.

“Slow down there,” he carefully tore open the envelope and began reading it. “I suppose I never told you really about my journey here, right?” John swallowed, “well, uh, it wasn’t really legal you see. Uh . . . I  _ may _ have gotten kicked off of my transport near Philadelphia. Anyways that's how I ran into Franklin— I guess he was dressed nicely but not  _ famous _ nicely.” Somehow Alex’s sleep-deprived eyes finished the letter before John and stumbled back. “Wait I can explain—  _ Alexander _ ?”

Oh.  _ Oh _ . John wasn't the most emotional of people, much less the best at dealing with them in others. He attributed that particular talent to his father— bad enough to never have even had a mother, but it'd always seemed like he had an absent father as well.

And now Alex—  _ Alexander Hamilton _ , the unstoppable hurricane of a man he was— was . . . laughing and crying simultaneously?

“You did this . . . for me?” he breathed. “I- I—” John's arms ignored his brain and hesitantly stretched forward.

As if possessed with the same thought, completely ignoring their difference in height, the shorter telegrapher shakily wrapped his arms around John and they melted. And finally, John’s mind quieted and he embraced his other. Their bodies touched in the most innocent of ways, needing  _ moremoremore _ — and yet being utterly satisfied with just being Them.

“ _ You’re insane, John Laurens _ .” Alex murmured, an intoxicating laughter bubbling up in his chest. 

John leaned forward, mind going stupefied, reminding him of a night in a bar, long ago. Except instead of liquor, it felt like electricity was running through his veins. His dry lips and damp hair fell against Alex. It seemed to go on for an eternity, and at the same time, stop all too soon.

Finally, they simply held each other, basking in each other’s charged aura. They were like flames— crackling, powerful, unpredictable—  _ dangerous _ .

The smile faded from John’s face. 

“What are we now?”

( _ “I heard that you were being friendly with that rod— a bit  _ too  _ friendly.” _ )

“I’m not sure,” Alex tapped John’s leg gently, over and over.

( _ “He’s not a ‘rod’. He’s Polish and his name is  _ Kosciuszko _.” _ )

It was calming.

( _ “Do I look like I care about such insignificant details? No, more rather you should be far more concerned about the state of our family name. How can we take pride in our Laurens name when you dawdle about with those fools that threaten our way of life?” _ )

Alex breathed. “All I know is that this, you and me, feels . . . nice.”  
( _“Our way of life shouldn’t matter so much when it compromises others so harshly!”_ )

He squeezed John’s hand, their breaths mingling.

( _ Disgusting. _ )

Alex’s tapping continued and John realized the message he was been communicating.  _ It’s okay. I’m here. Thank you. It’s okay. I’m here.  _ Thank you. Over and over— until it became a mantra a part of his heartbeat. It’s okay.

It’s okay.  
We’re okay.

We have to be.

( _ I am  _ not  _ disgusting. _ )

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading!


	12. Cycle of Vengeance and Death with No Defendants

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They've made it. In a way. Alex is largely unconscious for most of it and John probably wishes he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey hey! I'm not dead! We're finally getting closer to the climax of the story! Tysm for all the support with this fic ^^

One month.

One month of a flurry of letters, intimate touches, gradually getting used to the thought of _finally_ being able to return to James. Alex couldn't help the road grin stretching across his face— _finally, finally,_ finally.

He tapped the wall that was shared between his and John’s apartment. _God, John_ — the curly haired telegrapher was just . . . _wow_ . They never went past that one day when the news had come, but something had instantly just been _different_ . That tingling sensation in Alex’s chest had turned to sparks. Sometimes they were like a warm fire in front of him, and other times— it _hurt_. Swallowing, he mustered up his voice, “John! You ready?”

He never considered the walls thin, they were certainly better than any structure on St. Croix during the storm, but the other man’s crisp laugh tore through the building and Alex like they were nothing. “Of course! Come out to the hall. Make sure you have everything.”

“Yeah, yeah.”

Unlike John’s initial trip over, the two planned to make their way to the South legally. Thanks to help from the vast networks of Franklin, he’d managed to get them seats on one of the rare trains to the South from the North. Alex could still imagine the old man’s bellowing chuckle with every letter he sent: _don't you suppose America’s sustainability is so fragile? Despite the trade block, we still require some connections to the South, them for salt, us for cotton. How serendipitous our lack of progress is!_ Franklin definitely was eccentric.

“You ready, Alex?” John smiled, dressed in the same buttoned up shirt he'd appeared in months ago. His constellations of freckles seem to glitter and Alex barely squeaked out an agreement. “We better get going— the train leaves at noon.”

Even though the southerner looked tired, Alex couldn’t subdue his excitement. It proved infectious and John grinned. All his life, he’d never been able to just _breathe_ — he was always doing something, always thinking something. Alex was literally nonstop. But staring at John always had the opposite effect— certainly, somewhere in his subconscious he was already re-editing his third draft of an essay on the man’s eyes, but at the same time, _John Laurens made time stop_ . Alex didn’t want to run nonstop through his time with Laurens— who knew when it would end? For once in his life . . . _I want to take my time with this_.

Walking through the bustling streets of morning New York, they bumped shoulders playfully. He took a deep breath, air barely tainted by the scent of smoke— he’d never been so cheerful about getting bruises.

* * *

 

There was smoke in the air as John helped pull Alex onto the train. The prospect of getting onto the iron behemoth seemed far less daunting when it was at a standstill rather than at full-speed, he mused dryly. The shorter man’s calloused palms smoothly gripped John’s, the two seeming to mesh together perfectly.

The feeling of anxiousness hadn’t subsided— if anything, every heart-racing moment was even more excruciating. But in a way, John felt almost addicted to the sensation— his entire being felt like melting when he was around Alex. There were worse ways to be hurt. He would know.

The train, built for storage, wasn’t exactly luxurious. There were hardly any seats, unless if one counted the numerous crates that filled the boxcar they resided in. Observing the dark shadows and stubble on his chin, John tried for a grin to distract Alex. “What’s on your mind?” Personally, he wasn’t quite in the mood for chatter, but silence seemed to be the last thing they needed. He usually trusted his instincts on these things. “Worried about the guys in New York?”

For once, Alex seemed to open up without excess prodding. “Yeah. In a way . . . .” He quirked his eyebrow at the Southerner, “have you heard anything from Herc? Or Laf?”

A sour taste came back to John. _Laf_ . . . . The last time the two had interacted hadn’t been too well. He’d thought it nigh impossible to completely avoid contact with someone— Henry Laurens had unfortunately proven that— and yet the Frenchman had somehow done so, despite the fact he often landed the shift after John. He’d claimed everything was fine, but there was no use denying the haunted expression on his face after his back had been revealed.

“I haven’t heard . . . anything.”

Alex sighed, clenching the wood as the train began to move. “I’m worried about them.” He didn’t say anything else and John left it at that. His hand gently held Alex’s and they locked eyes. Shifting over, the shorter man rested his head on John’s chest and they stayed like that. Green swaths of New York flew past, distantly reminding him of the rolling fields of the south. _Home._ Was it? John could feel Alex’s heartbeat, steadily erratic, equally paradoxical like the man himself.

Home was where you felt loved— where there was smiles and laughs. There was sunlight outside that would warm it. Home was where you could invite friends to visit— home was where friends were. _Is home where Alex is?_

The thrum of the train vibrated below and John sighed, feeling his eyes droop from his lack of sleep the night before.

_I’d like to find a home . . . ._

* * *

 

It was the sound of the train stopping that abruptly woke him. Night greeted John’s eyes as they dialated to the lighting. Something felt wrong. He shook Alex, ears trying to detect anything in the dark. The smaller man wouldn’t wake up and John softly cursed— sure, Alex was bound to be tired from his usual five hours of sleep, but his body shutting down _now_ , of all places! Cautiously hiding him, John peeked his head out of the car.

 _Shit_.

No wonder the train was stopped— from the look of the angry men wielding the torches, the conductor probably wasn’t even safe anymore. From his angle, John could barely make out the track— or what _used_ to be the track. Torn up and knotted, a surprisingly large segment of the train tracks lay on the earth, completely stopping the locomotive’s progress. There wasn’t going to be an easy way to South Carolina after all.

 _Why are they here?_ What point in there, but petty idiocy, would serve stopping a train from the north filled with cargo _to_ the south? It only proved the south’s loss. John gritted his teeth, _and Alex’s._

The men began making their way down the train, perhaps searching for any notable riches to seize before running. His entire body tensed at the movement— it was now or never. There would be only a smaller gap between John and the men the longer he waited, and he could see the glint of a bayonet in the darkness. Quickly, he scooped up Alex, securing wrapping his long arms around his sleeping form. Godammit, the gods themselves would have to lean down from the heavens before he dropped the telegrapher.

 _One, two—_ three!

John’s knees, stiff from sitting in the train with Alex sprawled over his torso, winced at the impact with the gravel surrounding the tracks. Shouts rang out and he bit his lip, drawing blood. The irony taste sharpened his mind and he began running— _no point in being stealthy now_.

Branches smacked into his face, his breathing heavy in the cold air. John glanced back, instantly regretting it— the wooden segments of the track were burning, taking the stagnant train with them. As for the men— he could see one of the southerners loading his musket as his companions jovially cheered him on. His gut clenched at the thought that these were the sorts of men invited to Henry Laurens’ parties. To think it had once been his destiny to marry into such a society.

He glanced down at Alex, who somehow remained sleeping. _That’s not my destiny any more_. He lunged forward, going over branches and dead leaves, going deeper into uncleared forest.

John turned back one last time. He wasn’t sure why— but he suddenly regretted it. His senses, groggy from sleep, had suddenly seemed to wake up and he swore he heard the man’s croaky voice as he leered at John. “ _It’s just like hunting a rabbit_ ,” he murmured. The woods fell silent and the gun’s muzzle exploded into light.

Muskets weren’t easy to aim— John would know after all the lectures he got from his father for not being good enough. But the few, literal life-changing, times they did hit— _damn it hurts_.

He felt his muscles stiffen up and he awkwardly fell to the ground, body still trying to protect its precious package of Alexander Hamilton. _Shit_ . Blood. _Blood— that’s a lot of blood_ . His memory, still crammed with medical knowledge when that had once been an option, helpfully offered up “ _head wounds often bleed more than other injuries_ ”. Great— unfortunately, John wasn’t aware of if this applied to a gunshot wound that were in his shoulder.

 _What to do?_ His mind felt like what Alex looked like on ten cups of coffee at five in the morning. _Shock— you’re going into shock_ , the logical part of his mind somehow seemed to still function, albeit at an excruciatingly slow rate.

 _Speaking of excruciating_ . John was unwilling to touch the injury, but he carefully felt the flesh around it. His shirt was ruined and he was ninety percent sure that the bullet was still lodged in his arm. He attempted to tie a bandage one-handed from a piece of cloth from a spare shirt, and felt his energy fade away. It was rather depressing how draining it was to stand and get shot. John rubbed his eyes, realizing too late he probably smeared more blood on him. _Great. Now if we try to get help, we’ll look like insane people_.

Get help . . . would that even be possible? Who knew where they were— John was sure they had gotten to the south, if the men’s accents was anything to go by, but in terms of what state, he was lost. Too bad the men hadn’t exactly been open for conversation.

As much as John would’ve loved to continue contemplate the sheer pit of unluckiness Alex and him had fallen into, he already felt his mind fogging up. Every ounce of medical knowledge he knew screamed _don’t sleep_ , but if his childhood had taught him anything, it was John wasn’t too great at following the rules.

_At least . . . Alex needs to survive this._

His eyes stared up at the trees and, finally, closed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oops, I didn't mean for this to get so dark. Urgh-- lettuce all pray that I don't procrastinate!


	13. What's the State of Our Nation?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They wake up.

Alex woke with smoke in his lungs, the stars shining overhead. He coughed, rolling over in the—  _ grass? _ Dirt pressed into his back and his bleary eyes scanned over the clearing and suddenly he realized there was a damp patch of earth around him, and yet there was no signs of rain. His heart stopped in his throat.

_ John. _

The tall man was sprawled in an awkward pose, arms distantly reaching for Alex. While in any other occasion, he would’ve found it sweet, the dried stain completely covering John’s arm shattered any thought other than panic.  _ Blood. How much blood is that? _

Alex’s form shook as he tried carrying John’s dead—  _ oh god _ — weight. He had to still be alive— his body still provided some warmth. The telegrapher bit back his gag reflex as some blood flaked onto his shoulder. Gunshot wounds to the extremities weren’t necessarily lethal— but blood loss and bacterial infection were— Alex forced his mind to  _ slow  _ down. 

Growing up in the wild islands in the West Indies, Alex was well accustomed to seeing blood— from injuries or brawls— but  _ on John. _ It just looked wrong, making his stomach curl up and cringe.

_ Doctor, doctor _ — surely even the south would have hospitals? Clinics?  _ A person that can save him? _

He wiped at his face, not realizing he’d begun to cry. Alex bit his lip, praying for his heartbeat to calm. 

The voice in his mind soured—  _ what if? _ What if they didn’t make it— because if John left Alex was honestly as good as gone. What if he couldn’t find James? What if James hated him? The voice crooned to him— just like the voices that had whispered to him as he huddled in the storm. Though this time he wasn’t curled up in his brother’s arms.  _ What if the rain doesn’t stop? Will we join mama? Where is she? Where is He? Did He leave us? Did He run from the storm too? _

There was no  _ shh _ and back rubs this time. Only rough southern earth and the ragged harmony of Alex and John’s breathing. Alex and John.

Alex and John.

AlexandJohn.

They would make it through this.

* * *

 

“You’re not from around here, are you?” a young woman sat next to Alex, looking rather anxious through the dark locks that covered her eyes. Her voice carried a soft, melodious accent that he had trouble equating with the harsh shouts of  _ that _ night. His lungs ached.

Alex shook his head sheepishly, “not really.” He’d already been called out on his accent— a mixture of Saint Croix and New York— but was it really that apparent? His mannerisms, the way he spoke, his behavior—  _ god _ , no wonder John had always looked a bit overwhelmed.

His throat tightened at the thought of the man, probably lying unconscious still on some bed in the other room. Thankfully Charleston— as he’d found the town was called— had numerous clinics, and was apparently making a name for itself as a port town.

After a meager breakfast, Alex had spent the rest of his day in the waiting area. Sometime after noon, this girl, barely a woman, had strolled in, tense but ever willing to make Alex’s morning a living hell. She badgered him with so many questions he was considering asking if she was a spy for the Confederates, tailing a puny telegrapher that had stumbled onto the wrong side of the border. Now  _ that _ would be amusing.

“ . . . pets?” he barely caught ahold of the latest question.

Alex frowned, “sorry?”

She rolled her eyes, “do you have any pets? Da says the horses on our farm aren’t pets, but they’re  _ so _ cute. Jack always tells me off— he’s such a pushover to Da sometimes,” she scowled. Despite not even knowing her name, Alex had already found out about the mysterious parental figure of “Da”, no apparent mother mentioned, and her surprisingly smart, spur-of-the-moment brother, Jack. 

“No . . . no, pets.” Did the semi-sentient mountains of cloth Hercules always seemed to be refilling count? Alex wasn’t even sure why he was telling these trivial, pointless facts that meant altogether too much to him to this acquaintance. An odd comrade in the chaos of John getting  _ goddamn shot. _

She looked about ready to ask a whole new wave of inquiries when a nurse stepped out of the private room, and the tiny reception area fell dead silent but for the gentle breeze. “Ms. Laurens, Mr. Publius— the anesthesia’s worn off well enough for him to talk.”

Alex was automatically on his feet. He hadn’t been foolish enough to give out his name— even if they knew he was a foreigner, they damn well weren’t going to track him down easily. But . . .  _ Laurens.  _ Ms. _ Laurens. _ His eyes reanalyzed the girl—  _ Ms. Laurens. _ Now that he thought about it—

The eyes were different, more tired but still the same vibrant color. Her face had thinned out and tanned under the South Carolina sun— almost eerily similar to how John always stuck out in the pale-skinned New Yorkers.  _ God _ — he’d been so  _ dumb _ . Blocking such thoughts out hadn’t just made the facts  _ disappear _ .  _ Was John already married? _ It’d never been confirmed or  _ dis _ confirmed at the time— Alex had been a bit too occupied not trying to retch up the perfectly nice food he’d been prepared by  _ the man he wasn’t even sure was a bachelor and Alex  _ hit  _ on John oh god. _

“You’re  _ her _ ,” he breathed. The name slipped unbidden.

The women immediately was on her guard and she subtly blocked the doorway from Alex. The tiny movement made his chest ache. “I don’t know who you are, Mr.  _ Publius _ — and I don’t know  _ why _ you know Jack. All I know is- is that he’s finally come home and you better not be the one to ruin that.” Her voice trembled.

Damn. 

Alex had been played by this woman or whoever she was. Gone was the cheerful,  _ obviously probing _ , tone of before. Here was Mary Laurens, ready to protect her family, however she was related to John.

The trembling side of Alex that was still a boy— the one still shaking under blankets as a storm raged outside— just wanted to scream. To shove past Mary and see him. But he shoved it down and swallowed.

Getting out of control was the last thing John needed now.

“I’m not sure who  _ you _ are, but last I checked, John ran away  _ himself _ from here,” he bit out.

Mary flinched at his real name.  _ Ah so it was a nickname _ . Jack, John— it made no difference to Alex’s growing impatience (though a small part of him breathed a sigh of relief at John’s confirmed single-status). She took a shaky breath, “you don’t know what I’ve been through without Jack.”

Alex froze at his eyes being reflected back at himself.  _ Kids shouldn’t have those eyes. _

Biting back tears, Mary calmed herself. “We’ll discuss this later— with  _ Jack _ . Let’s go.”

* * *

 

John Laurens was  _ not _ the happiest of campers. 

_ God. _ The trouble Alex must’ve gone through to drag his unconscious ass all the way to the clinic—  _ and of course it’s in Charleston. _ He always knew karma had been eager to snatch him back to his childhood home.

The creaky wooden door swung open and the tanned face of the kind nurse poked in. “Mr. Laurens, your sister and the man who brought you here, Mr. Publius, would like to see you now, is that alright?” 

Mr. Publius . . . ? John bit back a snort at the cheesy alibi— Alex was lucky John was able to recall 99% of the crazy things the telegrapher said.  _ Publius _ — an old nickname from his Princeton days.

“Yeah, sure, let ‘em in,” a hoarse southern accent escaped. He blamed it on the exhaustion or the recently reopened wound in his shoulder that gave him an oddly drowsy feeling. He immediately felt awkward arms around him and the slim weight of his sister pressed on him. John squirmed under her, “ _ god _ , Mary it’s only been—”

Her dark eyes fastened onto him. “Only six months, Jack.  _ Six months _ and you come back in  _ pieces! _ ”

“Now that’s a bit of an exaggeration—”

“Oh  _ don’t _ give me that  _ John Laurens _ . Da’s going to be so mad—”

John’s hands clenched hard on Mary’s arms at the mention of Henry Laurens. His face grew pale and he distinctly registered Alex slipping into the room. ‘What did you tell  _ him _ ?” his heart was beating a million miles per hour and, damn the his arm, he would  _ hobble  _ outside the town, into South Carolina wildernerness, to escape the demeaning eyes of his father.

Mary’s eyes welled up in tears, “I didn’t tell him ‘othing Jack!” 

He automatically released his hold at the sight of his sister’s tears. It’d seem like so long, but in all honestly, his sister was still only sixteen. Old, but not old enough— not old enough to be dealing with this bloody chaos of war and death. 

John took a shuddering breath. “I— sorry Mary. I need to talk with Mr. Publius right now. Alone, if that’s all right.” He glanced to the nurse who nodded, making to usher his sister out.

She looked at John for a moment. “You’ll come back, right? You’ll come home?”  
The room was silent.

“We’ll see.”

He squeezed Alex’s hand for comfort.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story is slowly, but surely drawing to a close and it's something I'm quite proud of. Thank you all for sticking with it for it's six-month long life thus far (it's just a coincidence that this is also the time John's spent in NY ;) )


	14. I gotta Holler just to be Heard

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That's it, it's done.  
> Alex has made it back to his brother and John reunites with his family. Or something.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gosh darn y'all, it's been a heckuva journey. Thanks for everything :)

Henry Laurens was on a business trip, thankfully. Mary had said it had been somewhere in the north, and declined to say anything else, glancing at John nervously.

Despite just having a bullet rammed through his arm (and none too gently removed), John Laurens was looking surprisingly awake. Or perhaps, Alex mused, it was more the anxiety of being in his old home again. He could relate to that. Just the thought of ever venturing near an island, at the mercy of the swirling oceans around and the storms that travelled like knights across the water— _no_. It sent shivers up his spine. John was probably the only person that was cringing at being set upon the finest silk and down pillows in South Carolina.

After reluctantly showing Mary his letter from James, she’d shrugged helplessly. “Sorry Alex, bud, but the only person I’d know that would know anything about a newcomer like that would be—”

“Right. I get it.” Alex had gotten the message. Henry Laurens really did stick his nose into every manner of business— business he had no _right_ to.

Alex traced his fingers over the scribbling, looping handwriting, still recalling when he and James would sneak to the local clergy, practicing and testing each other on their letters. They’d learned to read and write together— _how else will these words connect us?_

He felt a blanket-swaddled John gingerly shuffle behind him. _Cute_. His free arm instinctively sought out the hand of the Southerner, tracing over callouses with his thumb. The dining room was quiet, but for their mingling breaths and the soft candle Mary had left out for Alex while she went upstairs to sleep. It had been a busy day.

“You nervous?” John asked hoarsely, resting his chin on Alex’s head. For once he didn’t move— it felt _safe_. It was what he needed— too bad all problems couldn’t be solved with cuddles.

He humored the idea— imagined a world in which disagreements were signed in cuddles. He snorted at the thought of Ulysses S. Grant and Robert E. Lee shaking hands over the North-South border then hugging. Alex must’ve muttered a word or two of his thoughts aloud, as John gently kissed the crown of his hair, chuckling himself. “Imagine that, Alexander.”

He stiffened at the sound of his name— it rolled beautifully off John’s tongue, indeed— but the man only used it when he was getting onto a somber topic. Their hands squeezed. _What is it?_ the touches murmured. Their own personal morse code.

“You need to see your brother, James, Alex.” There was no room for argument in Laurens’ voice. Only cold determination and the slightest bit of apprehension. If he could, Alex would make it so no such expression would ever mar the beautiful face of John Laurens ever again.

“We’ll wait here. For _him_ so we can save your brother.” John continued.

Henry Laurens was not a nice guy and even worse father. Alex had seen proof of it himself, tracing fingers gently over the white lines that would never disappear, only fade, on John’s back. Not even feather-light kisses would sew up the scars that hid inside the lanky Southerner— in places where even Alex couldn’t reach.

His throat swallowed itself up— he couldn’t talk. There was only silence describing in what John was offering, no, _demanding_ , he do— for _Alex_ . His mind told him to speak up— protest this, say _thanks_ — say something, _anything_. But he couldn’t, perhaps he’d always been like that: waiting to the side and letting James fight for him.

Alexander Hamilton was nonstop . . . right? Always moving and working towards a goal . . . .

But maybe he’d just been running.

“John.” He rasped. _JohnJohnJohnJohnJohn_ . His extensive vocabulary fled him, leaving with only that one life-line dancing on his tongue. Alex’s eyes watered and he clutched the other man in a hard grip, nimble fingers refusing to release even as he distantly registered a hiss of pain from John as he ghosted over the wound. His body needed this— no, _wanted_ this. This— John. Ugly sobbing sounds erupted from him, and he buried his face in John’s solid, _real_ chest, listening to the heartbeat. Alex finally lay in John’s arms, and they stood there, quiet, contemplating, _together_.

_I’ll make it up to you._

* * *

 

The Laurens family reunion was not one of tears— at least in the way one might expect. Instead it involved more shouting and screaming, thrown items and words Alex more expected from the traders from Nevis, not the elites of southern society.

“Sorry, Alexander. I know he’ll never help if I’m being like this,” John croaked, knotting up his handkerchief with trembling fingers. _It’s just a bit impossible_ not _to be_ — the words went unsaid.

“We can—” Alex was cut off by the door opening.

“Mister Laurens and Mister Hamilton, the head of the Laurens’ family would like to humbly invite you to dinner downstairs, and apologizes for his behavior before. It was merely a surprise seeing his son after so long, you’ll understand,” a dark skinned woman curtseyed politely.

Alex was silently thankful for the interruption. What would he have offered? It wasn’t like they could just _run_ back to New York. They’d both already done that once. He clenched his fists and breathed slowly, _in, out_. They would make it through this— they had to.

Dinner was just as deadly as Alex imagined it to be— quiet and full of mannered, calculating probes. Henry Laurens had truly earned his long-term reign as senator.

“So where are you from, Mister . . .” Laurens’ smooth as silk voice easily questioned Alex and the group awkwardly ate the meal. Mary had refused to come downstairs.

“Hamilton,” Alex smiled through gritted teeth. “I’m from New York City— you may have heard of it?” the thorny response slid off of the utterly _satisfied_ expression Henry Laurens was giving them, as if he could see through the table, where John’s hand was intertwined with his.

“Oh yes, I’ve made many a trip there. Did Jacky ever tell you about that? He always wanted to come along with me on my trips as a boy— though I suppose this time he went without his old man!”

 _Hate_. That was the only word Alex could come up with to describe this _person_ (who did _not_ _deserve_ to be called a man). He was exactly the sort who could slide into lines without anyone complaining, getting the best simply because he had the cash and influence to do so. Unlike those like Alex, who had to fight for every last damn mouthful.

He gave a cheery smile, “no, I don’t recall _John_ ever mentioning he even _had_ a father.” Okay, perhaps he was slipping a bit from the slightly offensive to unsubtly attacking, but dammit, he wasn’t going to let John— who had been uncharacteristically quiet the entire evening— to just be spit at in his own home. Or what used to be his home.

The rest of the tense conversation reflected the atmosphere of the room, John’s grip on Alex’s hand becoming tighter and tighter.

Finally, the tall Southerner spoke up, “look, d-dad,” his voice shook. “We just came here to see if you had information on a man named James Hamilton.”

“It wasn’t for the pleasure of my company?” thinly veiled sarcasm lined Henry Laurens’ words.

Alex bit his lip— now that he knew why the two were there, and the fact it was entirely reliant on his compliance, he could easily be as difficult as he wanted. He couldn’t really blame John for snapping though— clearly ‘diplomacy’ hadn’t gotten them anywhere, and every moment they stalled was another that James _could be in danger, god._ He shoved another mouthful of food in his mouth to stop his gag reflex from continuing further. “Please, just help us. I need to find my brother,” Alex whispered.

For a moment, Henry actually seemed as if he was considering the request. “And what would you do if you saw your brother?”

 _What would I do if I saw James . . . ?_ Alex, after a moment of pondering, knew, and quietly spoke, for the first time without a scowl towards Laurens. “I’d say that I was sorry for not being there.”

The age on Henry Laurens’ face seemed to fade slightly as the man’s brows raised from his sneer. “Ah, I see . . . .” He called for a servant and ordered the man to arrange bags and a map. His eyes returned to Alex, calculating and serious. For a moment, the short telegrapher realized that, just like him, Henry Laurens had been running simulations and ideas in his head all along— and for some God-forsaken reason, the senator had decided it was in his best interest to help them.

Coming to a mutual agreement, Henry Laurens and Alexander shook hands.

“I understand you’ve come to a certain liking with Jacky, but I do hope you can be a better sibling than him.” Henry murmured.

The statement, while barbed, Alex realized, reflected the weariness clinging to the elder Laurens’ soul. He’d seen too many of his children die.

“I’ll do my best.”

* * *

 

“Bye Jack,” Mary sniffled, hugging John’s torso. “Don’t mess up your arm again.”

It was morning and Alex and him were finally heading to track down his ever elusive brother.

“Come on, it was only once,” he smiled, fondly ruffling his sister’s dark locks. She scowled and pushed him outside, where Alex and Henry were saddling up the horses.

“Aren’t you leavin’ mister?” she grumbled, averting her eyes that were glistening. “You’re leavn’ for real this time— aren’t you. You ain't coming back.”

John hesitated, shouldering his back and bending so they were eye to eye. “Hey, hey, hey— ‘M not dead yet, ‘kay? Once this bloody mess blows over, hey, how ‘bout I visit? It’ll be a lot faster by train and I’ll just pop back here. Then we can hang out, just you n’ me, alright?” His southern accent always strengthened when he was feeling anxious.

Mary gave a watery smile. “An’ Alex. You ain’t gonna leave him, are you?”

He bopped her on the head to her dismay (“brother! You’ll mess up Angela’s work!”), “nope, never.” Finally satisfied, he stood up, only to have Mary tugging at his coat. “Come on, May-Mar— we’ve gotta leave—”

“You know da misses you, right? I know he wants me to think he’s jus’ doing it ‘bout ma, but I bet he’s cried ‘bout you too. He’s just a bit rough aroun’ the edges. When you come . . . can you say hi to him at least?” Mary, sweet Mary who’d barely stepped over the South Carolina border, didn’t realize the reasons John had left. Didn’t know a thing about prejudice— black was black, white was white. Didn’t realize there was a lot more than just dislike between Henry and John. Someday he’d explain. Until then . . .

“Yeah,” he awkwardly nodded. “I’ll say hi to him too.”

“Love you Jack.”

Grinning mischievously, John rushed backward and gave a large sloppy kiss to Mary’s forehead in lieu of the grim message she’d given him. “ _Ew_ ! Jack that’s _gross_ !” _Kids shouldn’t have weary frowns on their faces_. He took pleasure in the screeching that ensued and laughed.

“Love you kiddo.”

He walked out to the stables and bumped playfully into Alex. “You ready?” he murmured.

Alex nodded and carefully guided his chestnut mare, coincidentally named Jack, outside. Henry Laurens, still gently brushing the other horse’s mane, remained quiet.

“Wouldn’t you rather a slave do that?” John asked, genuinely interested in his father’s answer. Laurens stiffened at that and the horse brayed at the sudden halt in brushing.

“Some things are most enjoyed done by your own hand.”

 _I guess parenting wasn’t one of those things_ , he bit back the comment. Instead, only a strangled “ah, I see” came out.

“I don’t suppose our feud will come to an end any time soon?” Henry Laurens asked. If not for familiarity with his tactics, John might’ve thought the man was regretful.

“I’ve reflected over the years and I’ve decided perhaps shunning your ways was not the most diplomatic—”

“ _No._ Diplomacy? There’s _nothing_ to negotiate here. I’m a homosexual— all right? A homo, a fag— yeah, your familial line is gonna end with me, but I don’t feel particularly regretful about that. There is nothing to negotiate or bargain about me being _me_.” John’s voice was hard and despite the voice cracks, he was feeling pretty damn energized about his speech.

He grabbed the brown horse’s reins and made to leave.

“Jacky— John— _son_.”

He stopped at the doorway, heart pounding furiously. When had Henry Laurens earned _that_ right? The only person that had ever called him that was _dead_.

“ _I’m not your son._ ”

John’s thighs didn’t welcome being back on a horse.

A few months in New York had been all it took to soften up the muscles, just to be brutally whiplashed by hard riding. Alex’s enthusiasm to finally meet his brother again wasn’t helping, the fast pace sending wind, sand, and whatever else was in the air slamming into John’s face and lungs.

Apparently Alex’s brother had landed himself in Jamestown, South Carolina (the irony wasn’t lost on John)— a day’s travel away on horseback. The man himself seemed determined to half the time, pushing his horse until it was practically at a gallop, large barrel chest heaving.

“Alex— slow down! There’s no point in going fast if you’re going to burn him out.” John shouted, gently pushing his horse with his legs to catch up.

Finally, the telegrapher slowed, face windburned and his eyes looking alive. Laughter erupted from the man who seemed as if he could fly. “Thank you for helping me.” They continued on at a brisk trot, Alex practically shaking with excitement.

After riding for a few hours, completing around half the distance and surrounded by a good cover of trees, John suggested they break for a early lunch. Mary had helped back the meal and he smiled at the messily written note threatening John if he didn’t eat the entirety of the “very healthy” meal of meat and potatoes. They shared a flask of sweet, watered wine and made their way towards the small town of Jamestown.

“Do you think that it was the name that attracted him?” Alex asked briefly as the sun sunk lower in the sky.

He chuckled, “I’m not sure. He’s your brother— was he into that sort of thing?”  
The shorter man frowned, “I . . . I’m not sure. Honestly, it’s been so long, sometimes I forget what James’ face even looks like. It’s . . . scary, to say the least.” Alex spoke softly. “Do you think I’ll even recognize him? How much will he have changed? Will he recognize _me_? Wouldn’t that be an awful twist of fate— him not even recalling his brother after all this effort you put in to make it happen. I- I’m sorry, John, if this turns out to be—”

“Sh.” John murmured, bringing his horse as close as he dared, gently wiping away a quiet trail of tears on the other man’s face. “If everything you told me about him is true, then there’s no way he could have even _thought_ to forget you.”

“Thanks John.”

They rode in silence from then on.

* * *

 

“John— _John_ — is there supposed to be smoke? Is Jamestown some exporter of charcoal? _John there’s fire._ ” Alex shook the freckled man from his half-asleep daze on his horse, a talent he’d perfected when Henry Laurens wasn’t looking.

Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, John blinked awake. “Ah . . . what— _oh shit_.” He hurriedly tapped the brown back of his horse, “okay girl this is a bit sudden, but we’re going to gallop. Okay?” The murmurs were more for him than the horse.

Alex shot after him as they raced towards the flame, which appeared to come from the extremity of the small, _very wooden_ town.

John jumped from the saddle as soon as they arrived on the edges of the scene, which was more of a smoldering pile of ruins than a burning home. He glanced at the map and his gut twisted— _this is it. This is the residence of James Hamil—_

The last remaining Hamilton ran towards the house and without a care, leapt in. John followed in literal hot pursuit. “James! _James— where are you?_ ” Alex’s voice cracked and his vision was obscured by smoke.

“Wait— Alexander—” John couldn’t see anything. He was running on coals, pushing aside planks of wood in search of the wirey New Yorker, who, in seconds, had completely disappeared from his vision.

“James— _don’t leave me_ . Where are you? Yell— shout— _I need to hear you James. I can’t_ —” John wrapped his arms around Alex, tugging him back. “I can’t find you,” the small form in his grasp shook like a leaf, cries forcefully wracking Alex’s body.

John tore off a piece of his shirt and covered up the shorter man’s mouth, wrestling him outside of the ruins. “It’s not safe! The smoke’ll get into your lungs!” he cried hurriedly, shoving him out.

“What about James then?” Alex wailed, fruitlessly shoving at John. “ _I hate you. Let me in— I hate you!_ Please. . .” he helplessly groaned, tears and ashes smudging on his cheeks.

The words stung like the smoke piercing John’s lungs. Picking him up, the tall man let Alex down by the untied horses. “I need you to watch them, but I’ll find James. I promise.” His voice shook despite his attempts to calm himself. _Alex is probably going into shock right now. He needs to be somewhere safe._ But the telegrapher wasn’t going anywhere without James— they’d already come this far. John cursed to himself and bent down.

“Do you trust me? Alex, Alexander, _listen to me_ ,” he held the telegrapher’s face in his hands and their eyes connected. Electricity seemed to fire up the air and every moment seemed surreal. Alex’s eyes were dilated with fear and he seemed unable to fully register John’s voice past the crackling of the house.

“Yes.” he finally choked out between his rapid fire breaths.

John gently kissed him, smearing away ash. “Alright, trust me this time again too, please.” He ducked back into the smoldering ruins. John was aware of several things once he’d dove back into the burning house. One— it wasn’t something he’d recommend doing to anyone else. Two— smoke is _thick_ , so much so that he could barely see anything but the faint orange glow of embers as he blinked his watering eyes and desperately tried not coughing out his lungs. The grey fumes embraced his form and John almost forget to yell.

“James!” he shouted, cautiously turning the corners of the sizzling ruins. _Where would a panicked man go?_ Had the man even been in when the fire had started?

_Was this even James Hamilton’s house?_

Certainly, they were close to where Henry Laurens had marked on the map, but who was to say John’s father had been telling the truth?

 _Screw this._ Alex would kill him if he left empty-handed regardless, whether it had been him brother or a stranger John had left to smoulder. He took a deep breath and instantly regretted it, smoke eagerly obliging to take the place of oxygen. _Shit_.

 _Cough_ , inhale, _cough out smoke,_ inhale smoke.

God— John’s lungs felt like embers had been caught up in his lungs. The one thing he’d warned Alex about he’d failed. Lifting his shirt to cover his nose, John rubbed away the tears budding in his eyes and stormed on. Dammit— he was going to bring back a corpse if he had to. _He’s suffered enough for a lifetime._

Crawling up the barely intact stairs, John winced as warm wood groaned and cracked under his feet. He made his way through the top level of the house, which was mostly untouched, but for the heavy cloud of smoke and dangerously heating up flooring, barely containing the dying flames below.

He called out for Alex’s brother to no avail.

It was only until John had literally run into James that he’d ‘found him’. Or at least, what was left of James Hamilton.

* * *

 

Alex blearily stood up, sniffing the smoke-heavy air. A sturdy body nudged him and he snapped awake, recognizing the snout of Jack. “Hey bud,” he groaned.

Despite always an meticulously efficient worker, or rather because of it, Alex had a habit of easily falling asleep in ‘power naps’. Afterwards, he was left groggy and rather irritable.

The horse kept prodding at him and Alex noted the second horse tied to him. Two horses . . . _two, two._ That was important. _Ah—_ John. His eyes snapped open to the burning carnage in front of him.

_That’s right. James._

The wooden structure groans and with an ominous moment of omnipotence, Alex just _knows_ John is in there. John is in there and the house is burning _oh God I—_

(In the eye of a hurricane)

It’s just like back then, when the skies had been crystal clear, the temperature perfect enough to maybe even dip in the water surrounding Saint Croix.

(There is quiet)

None of them had seen it coming. It was all playing back, but this time the sky was filled with awful black smoke.

(For just a moment)

Not like back then.

(A yellow sky)

Because this time it was John— _not James_ — a fire— _not a hurricane. Not a hurricane in all it’s beautiful destruction with the fury of God himself riding on the terrible walls of water._

Alex threw up his meager lunch onto the dying grass. He had to get inside— to save John and not let the same mistakes happen again. He’d stood by passively before, when James had risked himself to get himself and his brother through the storm, so _why_ — _why are my legs shaking so badly? I can’t move._ His entire frame was shaking with adrenaline and fear, but nothing would let him budge.

He was frozen to the world.

Because it didn’t matter how many words he could recite in a minute, how many letters upon letters he’d wrote. Alex was still that little boy huddled in a rickety shelter as water pooled in.

_Forgive me._

Alex clutched at his contracting stomach that refused to give up any more, bile stinging his lips and tears dripping from his cheeks.

* * *

 

New York had turned him soft.

John was sure farmwork in South Carolina had never been this grueling, but the fire’s fumes had leached the energy from him as he dragged James from the flames. Not even what had used to be freckles were visible from under the layer of ash.

“Listen up bud, I’m going to need you to stay strong. We’ll be able to get you back to Charleston— there’re doctors that’ll you up just fine. Just stay alive for . . .” John’s voice trailed off as he felt through James Hamilton’s curls to his neck. The warmth he’d mistaken for life was merely the fires parting touch.

“Ah—” John breathed and then was knocked back by a tackle-hug from the one and only Alexander Hamilton. Coughing erupted from him. _Ah perhaps I wasn’t as healed as I thought—_

“John! Are you alright. I’m sorry— God, I’m so—” Alex’s face drained of any dredges of color left as his eyes glanced upon the unmistakably _charred_ form of his brother. “Wait— no, nonono—”

“ _Don’t look!_ ” the Southerner screamed, forcibly turning the telegrapher’s gaze to him. “Don’t . . . _I’m_ sorry.”

They stayed like that, clasping each other for warmth despite the heat radiating off of John from the flames. How had everything seemed so optimistic on that train, then spiraled down low, _so low_? Bullet wounds, antagonistic fathers, fires, and now this? The whole reason they’d put everything on the line by crossing the damn border—

“I’m sorry.” John whispered. Everything— he’d tried so hard to finally give Alex a break. Give him someone else to help him when not even the freckled man could be there. But now there was nothing.

Alex shook his head, rubbing away tears futily. “A grave,” he hoarsely nodded to James.

Cautiously kissing him, John nodded somberly.

“Let’s make it nice, shall we?”

They dug for hours, having not brought any equipment. They scrapped at the cold, unforgiving earth that was already prepared to embrace the little winter snow South Carolina got. Their nails tore, beds screamed with dirt— John’s optimism of ever finishing sunk with the sun.

Finally, they sat back on their heels, knees caked with earth, staring at the ominous pit. A humble gave for a person that would be largely forgotten by the world.

After all, who remembered a person once they were gone? Certainly Alexander would— but after he was gone? John, tightly squeezed Alex’s hand as they slowly filled the grave back up, the trees seeming to let out a sigh of relief as the last clump of soil was patted into place. Forgotten by the world, forgotten by time itself . . . for a moment, he didn’t particularly care. They were alive, breathing despite what had happened. They were together. He’d survived getting _shot_ . That was undeniably a noteworthy achievement. _As long as I can  stand here by your side, breathing this fine air— I think we’ll be just fine, Hamilton._

Alex was the one to finally break the tranquility. He always had been a man of action regardless of his affinity for words. “I never really helped him. I just stood here— I couldn’t even get inside the house. My _legs—_ I—” he shuddered and leaned against John heavily. “I couldn’t do anything,” he spoke quietly. “It was all _you_. Thank you.”

John  gave a sad smile. Their foreheads brushed. “Well, the way I see it, Alexander Hamilton— you were pretty great as well. I wouldn’t have even been back here without you.”

Their lips brushed.

“Pretty damn great yourself.”

 

**fin.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tysm for your support. It's been great writing this and I've seen my writing develop a lot throughout it. I'm nowhere near finished with writing, but this fic ended perfectly I think.  
> I'm done with Hamilton-- of course I'll still be writing and listening to it avidly, but my Hamilfic writing era is over. I simply don't have the passion for it anymore and while I'd have loved to expanded this universe (cause boy oh boy did I have _plans_ ) I don't think that'll come to fruition. Stay posted on if I ever write an epilogue for this to try tie up odd ends, but honestly, I'm (for once) content. My writing is subpar and my grammar more so, but it's been a learning process, and there are parts I'm proud of. There's a lot of open-ended comments and details that probably won't go acknowledged, but I'd love to see peoples' impression of where I might've gone with this :)  
> Thank you all again, and thank you for the support I've found with this story. 
> 
> Till next time ;)

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all I love getting feedback-- it always makes my day ;) *wink wink nudge nudge*


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